


The Outsiders

by idso



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Highschool AU, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idso/pseuds/idso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teenlock AU Highschool story, John is a fifth year at St Bartholomew's institution for fine learning, he has been assigned to a new roommate and his usually boring life takes a turn <br/>Rated for future smutty goodness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is my first try at a proper Sherlock fanfiction, similarities to Rubberbird's "School For Scandal" may occur, my intention is not to copy her, but I find the story utter perfection, if you haven't read it, DO FOR GODS SAKE!
> 
> This story is rated M for future smutty goodness.
> 
> A million thanks to my divine BETA Jenamy <3 
> 
> The title is taking from Marina and the Diamonds song “The Outsider” because I felt like the lyrics suited well with what I feel is Sherlock’s feelings in this story.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they belong to the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

Chapter one  
John groaned as the alarm on his phone went off, it was the first day of term. He yawned as he half-heartedly dressed into his boring navy-blue school uniform. Looking around his room he noted his roommate was still absent; all fifth years had been at St. Bartholomew's institution for "fine learning" a week now. The school decided fifth years had to mentor first years, show them around, and give them a "great start" as the headmaster had so finely put it in his welcoming speech. For some reason John's roommate had failed to show up. He was the new kid, or so John was told. Being forced to leave his old roommate and best mate, Greg, to this new stranger, all because his teacher though John was the perfect candidate to make the new guy feel welcome and at home.  
John entered the dining hall for breakfast; he looked around for a familiar face and heard the sound of his best mate.  
"Oi, come here and sit down you wanker!" It was Greg. John happily obliged. He looked around the group, it was small, but he liked his mates, most of them were on the football team. Greg was captain; he'd always had the leader type in him. Then there was Freddie, Oliver and Mikkel—Mikkel was an exchange student from Denmark—this was his second year at Barts.

When breakfast was over they all met for assembly; they all went down to the assembly hall and was met by the entire staff. John noticed a boy, roughly his age sitting in the far corner of the room; he had dark, curly hair that framed his ivory face perfectly. He looked so solemnly around the crowd—it was clear by his facial expression that he did not wish to be here. John looked away and didn't pay the boy any more attention; Greg was cracking jokes about Mr. Abbott, their Maths teacher. John laughed half-heartedly; he'd always felt a bit sorry for Mr. Abbott and his clearly non-existing sense of dressing himself.

Mr. Grave, their headmaster, called for silence and began his long and utterly dreary speech—which always went on and on—until every student in the hall was yawning by the end.  
They shuffled out of the hall and went to first period; English, with their new teacher. Their old teacher, Mr. Pratchett, was fired last term due to some inappropriate behaviour towards the students. They waited in the classroom for the teacher to arrive, he was late. John looked around the room and noticed the strange, dark haired boy was sitting in the far corner; the boy's piercing blue eyes met his. John smiled politely but the boy rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the book he had in his hands. John huffed slightly—what a wanker.

A young-ish man entered the room; he had short, dark hair and was wearing brown slacks, a white shirt, a beige pullover—he was a handsome man. John shook his head at this thought, no, not handsome, just very well dressed—yes, well dressed. John consoled his mind with that.

"Hi class, sorry for my lateness, I'm afraid I got slightly lost. I accidently crashed in on Mr. Abbott's Maths lesson. Well," he turned around and started writing on the blackboard. "My name is Colin Roberts, and this is my first year teaching, but alas! Don't fret, I shall teach thee most amicably," he laughed; the class followed suit. John looked over at the strange boy and noticed he wasn't laughing. He huffed loudly and turned his attention back to his book. John looked at Mr. Roberts to see if he had noticed—he had.

"Excuse me, Mr.?" Mr. Roberts had walked down the rows and was looking down at the boy.

"Holmes, Sherlock Holmes." The boy grunted.

"Well excuse me Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but do you have something you wish to say?" Mr. Roberts clearly meant this as a threat, but Sherlock did not seem frightened.

"Well, it's clear that you are scared shitless and you are desperately trying to convince the class that you aren't by the means of humour, classic in first time teachers. You want to be hip and cool like us, but you still want to seem authoritarian, so when you noticed me being a bit out of line you seized the opportunity to show off your authority, am I mistaken, sir?"

Mr. Roberts stood frozen, clearly at a loss for words. Sherlock looked highly self-satisfied.

"I will not tolerate this insolence Mr. Holmes, up the headmaster's office, NOW!" Sherlock grabbed his bag, which he hadn't bothered unpacking, stood up, and walked out of the room; on his way out John met his eyes and Sherlock sent him that self-satisfied smile again. John reciprocated with a look that means to say a bit not good there mate; Sherlock furrowed his brow at this and stormed out of the room.

The rest of the day went on uneventfully; John and the lads played a bit of football after school. John wasn't on the team since he was born with crooked legs; he did have them straightened, but he just didn't fancy football.

Deciding on a shower due to it being an oddly warm day in September and his exertion to playing, John needed to stop off in his room to pick up his toiletries—the door was ajar.

He peered in and found it a complete mess. John's bed and his things were untouched, but the occupant—his prior missing roommate—had finally arrived. Or he had and left his things—a mess—and left once more. John got his things and went to the showers.

When he returned it was still empty; John pushed his roommate's things away from his side of the room. Throwing himself on his bed he pulled out his mobile and went online, checking his facebook, twitter and email. Nothing special. His sister was "in a relationship" then "single" then once again "in a relationship." Ugh, so they had fought and made up, yet again. There was an email from his Mum telling him about her busy nothings. Groaning he closed out and opened up "Angry Birds." He heard approaching footsteps, then noticed they were just outside the door. He attempted to pause the game as the door opened; instead he attempted to mutter,  
"Eh, hi, I am," he stopped short.

"You're John Hamish Watson. Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes," the annoying, dark haired boy from English class said. He stood in front of him, hand outstretched in welcome. John shook his hand and glanced over at the mess, "Did you, I mean is this your stuff?"

John tried to sound neutral but his insides were cringing with anger—why oh why did he have to live with this wanker? Sherlock merely looked at the mess.

"Erh, well yes, I mean I did come here in a hurry, I didn't have time to," he looked around, "tidy up."

Sherlock started to shuffle his things about; he chucked his clothes in the tiny wardrobe next to his bed, a huge bag—clearly filled with books and papers was thrown onto his desk, landing with a great thump.

John sat down on his tidy bed and tried not to stare at the boy. It was very difficult. He was a strange sight to behold. From afar his ivory face was bland, but up close his features were odd, he was thin—very thin—his cheekbones were high and pointy, his nose was long and elegant. His eyes, a piercing blue that seemed to shine like two great big panoramic windows, but letting nothing seep out of them. His face was emotionless and cold as he looked back at John.

"So, do we need to establish some ground rules?" Sherlock said in a monotone voice. John looked at him and thought about it; Sherlock looked at him and answered for him: "You know, undressing in front of each other, not wanking too loudly after ten o'clock, those sorts of things." He was looking quizzically at John.

"Erm, well Greg, my former roommate and I just minded our business, making sure that the room wasn't too disgusting or mess," John glanced at Sherlock's still incredibly messy bed and desk.

"Right." Sherlock clearly got the point about the mess. He started to put his things in order. John turned his attention back to his phone, letting the boy unpack in peace.

He wasn't really focusing on the game; his mind was racing, racing with thoughts of how this arrangement could turn out for the best. John thought of himself as a very straightforward guy, but Sherlock's bluntness about wanking and undressing unnerved him a bit. Was he to expect waking up to a naked and wanking Sherlock? John shook himself mentally and rose to his feet—he had to get out of the room—now.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock looked at John with annoyance.

"Out to the library, I need to find some books for English," John lied. He was really thinking about going to Greg's room—his old room.

"Great! I need to go as well, give me two minutes!" John stifled a moan of displeasure at Sherlock's reply.

They walked silently up the long corridor to the library; John looked over some books that looked like he might need for English. He tossed a glance over at Sherlock who was returning with a large stack of Science books. He quickly read through the titles: Forensic Science in the 20th Century, Mass Murderess; A Case Study and so on. Oh God, they've moved me in with a weirdo! John sighed—a bit too loudly.

"Anything the matter dearie?" The old librarian asked him.

"Oh no, no, Mrs. Norris." John quickly replied. He quickly turned to glance at Sherlock who was looking at the science magazines that were on display in the "Newly Arrived" section. John didn't know if he should wait for him or just head back to their room. He supposed it was the polite thing to do, waiting, since he was assigned as Sherlock's get-to-know-the-school-guide.

"Are you going to be long Sherlock? I wanted to go for a run before dinner."

Sherlock looked up at the sudden disruption of his reading and gave John an annoyed look.

"You go, I can make my way back, I am not a total imbecile you know!"

John ignored Sherlock's huff and quickly returned to their room. Chucking his books on his bed then turned to get his spare clothes for running. Once his shirt was off he glanced down at his books and thought about how he had given Sherlock a hard time earlier for his mess, so he piled them neatly on his desk. Not wanting Sherlock to catch him in the midst of changing he locked their door and changed into his tracksuit. He grabbed his headphones and shoved them in his pocket along with his phone and room key.

End Chapter One.


	2. Chapter 2

Once John reached school grounds he pulled out his phone and headphones and plugged them in. Turning on his music and pressing play, he started to run—the best he could with his dodgy legs—and let the music sooth him. He ran around the lakes, nodding to the few students he met along the way; mostly 6th years having a fag where teachers couldn't nick them.

He ran further into the woods and eventually slowed to a walk. He clutched at the stitch of pain in his right side. He regretted not working out during the holidays. He stopped at a fallen oak tree to sit down; he paused the music and lied down on the tree trunk. Choosing then to catch his breath, John closed his eyes, and rejoiced in the silence of nature—until he noticed the scent of cigarette smoke from directly above him—he opened his eyes and saw a mass of dark curls and a familiar ivory face.

"Sherlock?"

"Great deduction Watson," Sherlock huffed as he climbed down and sat down next to John, taking a rather long drag of his fag.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?" John's annoyance was beyond evident.

"Well, the same as you I recon John; I needed to get away for a bit." Sherlock wasn't looking at John; instead his gaze was out into the woods. John didn't know what to think; he did need to get away, clear his mind of thoughts and speculations. He just didn't expect to come across the one thing he was attempting to run away from.

"Ah, I can see you clearly do not wish for my presence and that I have disturbed your run, John. I'd better be off then." Sherlock took another puff of his fag and getting to his feet, staring down at John.

"No, it's, it's okay," John sighed in resignation.

After all the school had assigned him to make Sherlock feel welcomed. He didn't want the school to give him a bad statement in his exam papers. Sherlock looked slightly perplexed; John patted the tree trunk, indicating Sherlock to sit back down.

"So what are you running away from Sherlock?" John looked at the dark haired boy with a slight smile.

"Oh, you're trying to make friends then John, you clearly wanted some time alone, but since you've been forced by the school to be my guide you thought you might as well seize the opportunity by getting to know me." Sherlock took another drag, closing his eyes, inhaling the smoke—he didn't want to see John's reaction.

"Brilliant!" John said without thinking. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and moved to John full of surprise. John's cheeks filled in a flush as the realization of what he just said dawned upon him.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked, reading John's face eagerly.

"How the hell did you know what I was thinking? I know mind reading isn't real, but fucking hell Sherlock, how the hell did you know that?" John looked wide-eyed at Sherlock.

"I didn't know, I saw; your face John," Sherlock chuckled, "You will never be an actor. I can read every emotion and every thought that passes through your mind through your facial expression." Taking the final drag of is fag and putting it out on the ground, Sherlock allows John to take it all in—composing himself once he realized he staring open-mouthed.

"To answer your question John, I am not running away, I am merely enjoying the peace down here. People annoy me."

"Why do people annoy you? I mean, yeah, we can't all be mates here, but how caneveryoneannoy you?" John asked in earnest.

"People are stupid and stupidity annoys me, ergo, people annoy me." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John laughed and looked down at his shoes.

"What?" Sherlock looked at John.

"You just insulted everyone, including me. I don't think I am stupid and I know loads of boys here who a far from stupid."

"Oh, don't take it personally John; basically everyone is stupid compared to me." Sherlock huffed pulling out another cigarette from his pockets and lighting it up. John stood and made to leave.

"You arrogant prick! I was trying to be your friend, or at least be friendly towards you, and then you just insult me like that, fuck you Sherlock!" John left; running the path he took.

John ran so fast he barely noticed he reached the school; he ran in anger and disappointment. That selfish, self-important, dick—John had been nothing but friendly towards that bloody wanker—why did he insult him like that? John reached their room and got a change of clothes, his toiletries and headed for the showers.

He stood under the warm water for longer than he usually did. He needed to wash away the anger before he faced his mates at dinner.

He dressed and returned to their room—still no Sherlock—sighing in relief, John placed his dirty clothes in the hamper and his toiletries in his wardrobe, and then headed to the dining hall to meet Greg.

"Hey, hey Johnny-boy, long time no see; been socializing with your new roomie I say." Greg laughed.

"He's a total wanker Greg, such a fucking weirdo! He asked me all sorts of weird questions about establishing ground rules, then when I went for a run the wanker found me in the woods, I mean how the hell can that be coincidence?" John felt some relief in finally letting his frustrations out to a proper mate.

"Yeah, a fucking weirdo." Greg agreed. They each got their meals, met up with Mikkel, Freddie, and Oliver, and sat at their usual table. John looked around and noticed Sherlock wasn't in the hall; thinking nothing of if he carried on. After dinner the boys went to the common room to play foosball for a while.

At eleven John bid his mates a goodnight; he felt happy and relieved from earlier in the day. Wanting to keep those feelings even upon his approach to his room, not knowing what to expect once he opened the door, he kept a hold on to that happiness. What he found when did open the door was a clean, tidy and mess-free room with Sherlock quietly reading on his bed.

"Hey," John said. Sherlock didn't look up, but did grunt in response. Not wanting to start an argument, John gathered his pajamas and toothbrush and headed to the loos. When he came back Sherlock was still reading on his bed, fully dressed and not paying attention to John's presence at all.

"Do you mind if I turn out the lights? I just really want to sleep."

Sherlock's only response was to turn on his bedside lamp. John turned off the room lights, tucked himself in and set his phone to charge. He contemplated saying goodnight to Sherlock but he didn't think Sherlock was worthy of one.

The next morning John woke up to find Sherlock's bed empty; he locked the door and changed into his school uniform. He met up with Greg and the other boys in the dining hall—he noticed yet again that Sherlock wasn't there. He turned his attention back to his tea, relishing in the soothing, warm drink. After ten minutes, Sherlock came barging into the hall looking rather disheveled. His lip was bleeding; he didn't take much notice of this, he went and poured himself a rather big cup of coffee in a cardboard cup and added far too much sugar and headed out of the room.

John grabbed his bag and excused himself from his friends; he rushed down the hall to find Sherlock sitting on the cold, marble floor, sipping his coffee outside the Maths classroom. Sherlock looked up at John and John could clearly see the damage inflicted on the otherwise perfectly smooth, ivory face.

"Sherlock, what the hell happened to you?"

"What's it to you?" Sherlock hissed turning his gaze away from John's.

"I'm your bloody roommate and a human being; I care if someone I know looks like they had ten rounds with Mike Tyson!"

Sherlock looked up, "Am I supposed to know who this Tyson character is?"

"You don't—no, that is not the point, Jesus, Sherlock, what the fuck happened to you?" John asked angrily as he sat down beside Sherlock—who turned his head to meet John's gaze.

"Well, if you must know, I had a bit of a disagreement with some of the sixth year rugby team members." John looked at Sherlock who laughed it off.

"How the hell did you manage that?"

"Well, they came up to me yelling stuff like faggot and weirdo, so I told them that calling someone a faggot is a bit double standard when three of them clearly are gay, and two of them had initiated in coitus with each other within the last twenty minutes." Sherlock's tone was as if he were explaining simple mathematics to John, like two and two makes four.

"Jesus, Sherlock, of course they're going to beat the living shit out of you for saying stuff like that!" John gave him another look that Sherlock began to understand meant a bit not good.

"But it was obvious that they were, all three of them had put a great deal of effort to appear very butch. A clear sign that they were compensating and the two boys were flushed even though they had just started the PE lesson. Their pupils were slightly dilated and they tried very hard not to look at each other." Sherlock glanced at John.

"Erm, John, you're doing that again."

"What?"

"Gazing at me with your mouth open," Sherlock said point at John's face.

"Oh, sorry, didn't mean to. It's just amazing how you can do that. Look at people and know what they're thinking and what they've been doing. I will try and stop if it annoys you. Sorry." John looked down, embarrassed.

"No! No, it, it doesn't bother me, it's just—I am not used to people complimenting me on my observational skills." Sherlock looked down, a slight flush peeking through the bruising on his cheek.

"What do people usually do then, well besides beating you to a pulp?" John asked with a smile.

"They tell me to fuck off." Both boys chuckled. They heard the bell, calling them back for classes; swarms of fifth and sixth years passed them in the hall. John and Sherlock climbed to their feet and entered the room, John going to his seat next to Greg in the second row, and Sherlock to his in the back of the class.

Maths was boring as always; Mr. Abbott writing stuff on the blackboard as he droned on and on about equations and the square root of pi. John tried as hard as he could to understand it, he even wrote everything down that Mr. Abbott wrote on the blackboard, but it might as well have been hieroglyphics for all that he could decipher it. John signed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration—exams this year were going to be a total nightmare. Maths was always his worst subject; his favourite was biology—the whole science of how the body worked and all the chemistry that was going on in the brain had always fascinated him. Speaking of, the bell rang—John was off to double chemistry.

They entered the lab in pairs; John with Greg, Freddie with Oliver, and Mikkel—who didn't look pleased—with Sherlock. Each stood next to a lab table with a Bunsen burner; John noticed Freddie and Oliver were trying to light a sheet of paper with. John returned his attention back to their instructor who has giving the instructions for their experiment.

When class ended the boys went outside for a brief recess to get some air.

"Forbandede møgidiot" Mikkel shouted; John knew he was angry when he swore in Danish.

"What's up?" Greg asked. Mikkel looked at them, his anger more than evident on his face, and in his eyes.

"Well, that wanker Sherlock Holmes told me everything I did was wrong and that I was stupid. He told me to go play with some Lego's instead!"

John sighed; he also noticed Mikkel was shaking slightly—was he really that angry?

"Don't take it personally, that's just how he is. He believes that he's some sort of genius and everyone else is stupid compared to the great Sherlock Holmes." John may have said that a bit more vehemently than he meant to—if the looks his mates were giving him were any sort of indication.

"Oh yeah, by the way John, how is it going living with him?" Oliver asked, weakly concealing a snigger.

"Well, he sure takes a lot of getting used to, but I guess I will survive. I don't think he's used to socializing with other people. Something tells me he didn't have a very caring upbringing." John was looking out over the lakes.

"Whoa, who let the psychiatrist-slash-social-worker in?" Oliver exclaimed; John blushed.

"I'm just saying Ollie, perhaps we shouldn't be too hard on him. I mean it can't be easy being the new kid, right Mikkel?" John gave a stern look at Mikkel who in turn glanced down at his shoes.

"Yeah, but at least I didn't treat other people like idiots John."

"I'll try and talk to him tonight mates, but I can't promise you anything. He seems very set in his ways." John sighed and lay down in the grass, closing his eyes, just feeling the ten o'clock sun caress his face. He didn't pay attention to Freddie cracking jokes, or Oliver ranting about his girlfriend back home—at least not much attention.

When the bell rang for class they made their way back; the rest of the day passed with social studies and double French. With lunch between; at lunch, John once again noticed Sherlock's absence—did he eat at all? When the bell rang at the end of double French, they said au revoirto Madam Nora—the only female teacher, and conveniently married to the headmaster. Greg and the others left for football practice and John headed up to his room.


	3. Chapter 3

When he entered the room he found Sherlock sitting at his desk writing up something on his laptop.

"Hey," John said cheerfully. Sherlock grunted in return.

John sat down on his bed and contemplated on how he was going to tell Sherlock to treat his mates better.

"What is it?" Sherlock hissed, his blue eyes piercing John with a heavy stare. John was once again taken back with Sherlock's uncanny ability to see through him; he answered in a small voice.

"Well, I was talking to my mates and they…" John trailed off, how could he say what he wanted without sounding like he was giving Sherlock a scolding?

"They wanted you to tell me to mind my own fucking business?"

"No, not exactly, just, look, we can't all be Einstein here, but don't give Mikkel shit about being stupid. He isn't! And telling him to play with Lego's that was low Sherlock! I'm not telling you to be all Susie high school, but do try not to make everyone hate you within the first week of term aye?"

"He messed up the experiment. He used the wrong solution of sulphuric acid, if he had poured it in the whole bleeding lab would have exploded!" Sherlock let out exasperatedly.

"Yeah, well, try to tell him in a friendlier way next time." John sighed in resignation; he knew he'd never beat Sherlock in this discussion—or any other for that matter. He decided to take another approach to Sherlock.

"So, how are you faring here at Bart's then Sherlock? Besides making sure the rugby team and the exchange students don't like you?" John chuckled a little and Sherlock looked—really looked—at John's face, then his contorted.

"You, you genuinely want to know, your face doesn't show signs of discomfort or forced politeness, why?" John was taken back.

"Why? Well because I want to know Sherlock! If you haven't noticed I am trying to be friends with you, but you're making it so fucking hard to initiate any form of conversation. It's like you're desperately trying not to make friends here; what about your old school, your mates there? Don't you miss them? Miss having someone to talk to?" Sherlock winced at the tone of John's voice.

"My old school," Sherlock gave a small laugh, "which one? This is the fifth school so far that I've been placed at. Friends? Really John, do I look like someone who had a ton of friends?” Sherlock shook his head, "If you must know John, I do try to avoid petty things such as friends or sentiment."

"Why? Friends are what make school survivable! No wonder you seem so bloody miserable all the fucking time. You don't have anyone to share a laugh with, to muck about with?" John was dumbstruck at this; he wouldn't have survived school without the lads, let alone the exams.

"You ask a lot of questions John; can't you just let me fucking be?" Sherlock yelled.

"No I fucking well can't! The school has trusted me to see you settled in and I bloody well won't disappoint them!" John was fuming with rage. Sherlock sighed and turned to face John, his face buried in his long, white, spiderlike hands.

"If you must know John, people don't seem to want to spend time with me; they call me a freak and run away. My brain, John, it works on another level than yours, I think fast, act fast, and won't be slowed down by anyone. I'm driven by my brain's needs not by body's or heart's." Sherlock lowered his head and ran his fingers through his long, dark, curls. "You wouldn't want to be my friend; I'm not worth your time or your compassion."

"Hey! I haven't run away! I haven't called you a freak!" John wanted to make Sherlock feel better; at first he didn't think the wanker deserved his friendship or his compassion, but then he remembered what his Grandma had told him once—she had told him to treat everyone like he wanted to be treated, that sending good out into the world made it a better place. John sighed; he missed his Grandma so bad, she had died a year ago from breast cancer. Sherlock looked up at John, taking his unusual pending silence.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"What? How?" John shook his head; once again astounded by Sherlock's omniscient abilities.

"Your face, it was showing sorrow; someone close to you, not very recently gone, who?" Sherlock's eyes softened and John didn't know what to do be more surprised by, the deduction of his Grandma or Sherlock's expression.

"My…my Grandmother, she died of breast cancer a year ago; she told me shortly before she died that I should treat people as I wanted to be treated. That's why I am not giving up on being nice to you Sherlock, Granny wouldn't have wanted me to break my promise." John turned his face and wiped a tear off his cheek.

"I'm, I'm sorry for upsetting you John, it wasn't my intention." Sherlock looked down on his shoes.

"Doesn't matter Sherlock, just don't tell the lads I was sobbing like a little girl aye?" John chuckled.

"I promise." Sherlock joined John's chuckling.

"Hey we should be heading down to the dining hall, it's almost dinner time." John smiled at Sherlock and rose to leave.

"You go, I'm staying here." Sherlock then turned his attention to his phone.

"Sherlock you need to eat? And by the way, do you ever eat? I never see you in the dining hall."

"Eating slows me down, I need to think, my body, it's just transport." Sherlock huffed, looking up from his phone.

"Sherlock! You have to eat for god's sake! Come, let's go!" John grabbed his arm and dragged him off his bed. Sherlock rose unwillingly; he attempted to shake his arm from John's grip, but to his surprise it was incredibly strong.

"Oh no you don't, you are coming down to dinner and I won't rest until I see you eat something, anything. They only thing I've seen you take is coffee and that can't be a healthy diet!" John was dragging Sherlock halfway down the corridor when Sherlock finally succumbed and went willingly. When they reached the hall it was already packed; they were standing in line when Greg passed.

"Hey, I thought you weren't coming, we're saving you a seat mate."

"That's alright Greg, Sherlock and I have some things to discuss do I'll just sit with him if that's alright." John tried to send Greg an apologetic look and smile.

"Hmm, suit yourself mate." Greg walked down to the lads with a slightly angry expression. Sherlock and John had gotten their food and found a vacant table by the end wall.

"Why did you dismiss your mates? You clearly made them angry by sitting with me, would you rather not be with them and let me sit here alone?" Sherlock looked at John with something that could be confusion.

"Oh no, they'll survive. I want to make sure you eat something. You are not getting away from me that easily." John laughed as he grabbed a large forkful of spaghetti. Sherlock tried to follow suit and began eating. They didn't talk much; John didn't know what to talk about with Sherlock and Sherlock didn't seem like the type of bloke that made small talk.

"If you wish to initiate a conversation with me feel free to do so, but do keep in mind that I am not accustomed to small talk." Sherlock huffed between bites of spaghetti.

"Okay, where are you from? How about your family?" John tried to ask the basics, Sherlock gave a slight chuckle.

"So predictable Watson; I'm from London, but Mother resides in our country estate. My brother still lives in our London house, it's more convenient since he works in the city."

"Oh, what does your brother do then?" John was rolling a meatball around his plate.

"Well, he's pretty much running the British government." Sherlock laughed.

"Blimey! Then he must be much older than you!" John gasped and nearly dropped his fork.

"He's ten years my senior." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"Well, I've got mum and dad, and Harry. That's to say Harriet, my sister. I've never really been to London, too expensive, my mum and dad always said. I've been on school trips but never longer than a couple of hours." John sighed; Sherlock looked at him.

"When you speak of home your face contorts. You clearly don't like it there, is that why you came here?"

John sighed and shook his head. "Just amazing Sherlock, how you can deduce that just by looking at my face still amazes me. Yeah, mum and dad fight, Harry drink because they fight. Then they fight because Harry drinks, and you know, usual family drama." John looked into Sherlock's piercing blue eyes and saw nothing but curiosity. Sherlock looked down, it seemed to John that Sherlock wasn't accustomed to reacting to such personal things; John appreciated his silence.

"I guess we should be heading down to English then, now that I see you've been fed?" John said as Sherlock reluctantly finished his plate of spaghetti. Sherlock nodded; they exited the hall and headed towards English together—in silence. As they entered the classroom John saw that Greg and the lads already arrived. John looked at them and then at Sherlock, did Sherlock expect him to invited him over to sit with them? Or did he expect him to join Sherlock in the corner? Sherlock broke the silence.

"You go over to your mates, you clearly wish their company and you don't owe me yours. John believe me, I will not be angry or disappointed."

"Cheers. See you later then." John smiled and went over to sit with the lads.

"Oh, I see his majesty has the kindness to bestow us his presence." Oliver bit out sarcastically.

"Oi, hear me out before you get mad aye? It isn't that I don't want to hang out with you guys, it's just that Sherlock hasn't eaten dinner since he got here; so, since the school has given me the responsibility to make sure that he is settling here, I thought I had to make sure he ate." John tried to send them all an apologetic smile.

"Whatever mate." Oliver looked away and John huffed.

Mr. Roberts finally entered the room; John looked at him. Today he was wearing brown suede trousers with a white shirt with the three top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. His brown hair was ruffled in a Tenth Doctor sort of way and his sideburns ended in a trimmed five o'clock shadow. John couldn't stop looking at his teacher—he mesmerized John in a way he hadn't experienced before.

As Mr. Roberts turned to write the lesson on the blackboard John's gaze paused at his teacher's well trimmed bottom. It was a while before he noticed that his class was rising. He finally came back to reality when Mikkel shook him.

"Oi daydreamer, we have to do this assignment."

"What, sorry, I, I didn't sleep well last night. Must've dozed off a bit there, what are we supposed to be doing?"

"We are to translate this Shakespearian sonnet into modern day English; we have until next time to do it." Mikkel sounded slightly annoyed at having to tell John.

John read the sonnet, it was the eighteenth, Shall I compare thee to a summer's day; great, some romantic hogwash, just what he needed. He rolled his eyes and began the assignment with Mikkel. John peeked over at Sherlock, he was sitting with one of the lads from the rugby team. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't do something idiotic again.


	4. chapter four

As September went by, John got more used to Sherlock, sure they had their arguments—John had discovered after days, foul smells seeping out of Sherlock's wardrobe, he was growing something slimy and mouldy in there. John had yelled, Sherlock had calmly explained the experiment. John had yelled some more and Sherlock binned the experiment.

As the blistering winds of October arrived Sherlock had gotten himself a cold. He'd spent too much time outside smoking without a proper coat. John now had to endure the endless torture that was the sick Holmes. John thought himself a patient man but his nerves was on end all the time at the moment due to Sherlock's endless whining about being sick, or as he said it, fatally ill. Greg, Oliver, Freddie, and Mikkel were spending more and more time on the football field so John was spending more time in his and Sherlock's room, after a week of a moping and coughing Sherlock, John had finally had enough. He pulled Sherlock out of bed and dragged him down to the nurse's office, nearly throwing Sherlock onto one of the beds, John turned to the nurse.

"Look, he's been ill for over a week now, I think it's just the common cold but he has some symptoms of inflammation, he had refused to see you since he thought it beneath him to seek help. I am going nuts by his moping and coughing, can you please do something?" It sounded more like a command more than a request, but as soon as John was finished speaking he strode out of the door, once again fuming with rage because of his roommate. John returned to their room and replied to his mum's endless texts.

Hi Mum, yeah I'm fine. School is going well, my new roommate is okay, no I am not on the football team yet and I don't intend on being so. Love you, say hi to dad and Harry. John X

John lay back on his bed and closed his eyes, he was knackered; PE in the morning was dreadful, followed by double French and double English, ended with a lecture on safe sex and STDs, fucking marvellous—listening to an old man talking about condoms and showing pictures of willies with funky stuff growing on them. He closed his eyes and feel asleep still clutching his phone in his right hand. A while later he awoke to the door opening and someone sniffling. Sherlock was back from the nurse's office.  
"So what did she say then?" John growled.

"That I have sinusitis. She gave me some penicillin and demanded that I quit smoking." Sherlock scoffed, "As if!"

"They will kill you, those foul things, you know that?" John scowled at him.

"Bah Humbug!" Sherlock replied with a grin and threw himself on his own bed. "The nurse said that I am to be bedridden for a week; I will surely die of boredom." He grunted and crossed his arms.

"Look, I'll bring you your homework, food and other stuff to you if you promise not to do some disgusting or dangerous experiment in our room. I can't stand anymore foul smelling things seeping out of your wardrobe!"

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, giving a sceptical look and said, "Why on earth would you do that for me?"

John looked back and raised his brow, "Because that's what mates do, they help each other when they need it."

Sherlock sat up in his bed; he folded his hands under his chin, his long, white fingers supporting his sharp jaw and looked hard at John, reading his face. John knew by now what that posture and facial expression meant.

"Mates, you…" Sherlock paused and trailed off, his expression softened, "You think that we are mates?"

John chuckled, "Yeah, I mean you're not especially easy to be mates with but yeah, you're pretty much my only mate at the moment because of fucking football, all the lads seem far too busy with it to hang out with me anymore."

Sherlock shuffled in his seat, "You, you are my first, real friend John. People never really like me." John smiled a Sherlock feeling a bit sorry for the poor, annoying, weird, bloke.

"I'll go to Mr. Roberts' office then and tell him you're too ill to attend his classes the next seven days, and that I'll be fetching your homework alright?" John didn't wait for a response as he walked out of their dorm. He headed down the hall, down the stairs and to the opposite side of the dormitory halls where the teachers' offices and rooms were. John knocked on the door and heard the familiar voice of his English teacher say "Enter."

John entered the office, he hadn't been in here before; it was different to Mr. Abbott's office. It was in any way as neat as Mr. Abbott's, piles and piles of books and papers covered every inch of desk, shelf and tables in no apparent order. Mr. Roberts was leaning against his cluttered desk and smiled at John.

"Hey Watson, what can I help you with?" John looked at Mr. Roberts and felt a slight flush start spreading across his cheeks. Mr. Roberts was wearing tight, black jeans with a similar, tight, blue t-shirt with a Doctor Who print on it; apparently he hadn't shaved this morning, for a slight stubble was visible on his face.

"John! Are you okay?" Mr. Roberts asked, John had apparently been lost in his observations.

Mentally shaking himself, "Oh, sorry, ehm, Sherlock Holmes has been told by the nurse that he should stay in bed for a week. I'm here to collect his homework." John looked down at his shoes trying to hide his blush.

"Right, er, can you come back later to fetch it? I er, don't have it ready now." Mr. Roberts glanced around his office and ruffled his hair which made John's cock twitch slightly and his face flush even more.

"Okay, I, I'll come back later then, bye." John rushed out of the office and ran down towards the lakes. He ran as fast as he could and found a secluded spot to think. He sat down against a tree trying to steady his breath—why did he always blush like a fucking school girl whenever he saw Mr. Roberts? John's subconscious was screaming the answer at him but he tried not to listen to it. He thought long and hard, he couldn't, could he? He didn't mind people who were, his own bloody sister was and he loved her—well sober her.

John had kissed girls, even touched girls boobs, he believe to have been in love Vanessa those two summers they dates; she broke up last summer, she wanted something more permanent than a summer sweetheart. He did think it was odd he didn't get hard when he touched her boobs, that sort of thing should have made a fifteen year old boy come in his pants. John finally listened to his subconscious and buried his face in his hands and whispered to himself—"Oh god, I really am gay."

He hoped that no one was around; he didn't mind being gay, he minded the consequences that followed being gay in an all boys school. He didn't fancy anymore bullying; he'd been bullied in primary and secondary school for his dodgy legs, he didn't need to add anything else. John sighed deeply and climbed to his feet and headed back up to the school, back to his room. He found Sherlock curled up on his own bed, a frown on his face and book in his hands.

"Mr. Roberts didn't have your homework ready yet." John forced a smile and threw himself on his bed. Sherlock looked over his book at him.

"Well that took you look enough, what made the penny drop?" John sat up in his bed and looked at Sherlock.

"What do you mean?" John asked trying desperately not to sound like he already knew what Sherlock meant.

"I am not an idiot John, I am a genius remember?"

"Yeah, well," John frowned and looked up at Sherlock, "wait, how long have you known that I, that I am...I'm," John faltered.

"That you're gay? Well I deduced it in our first English class; you were a bit obvious in your attraction to Mr. Roberts, John," Sherlock chuckled; John looked down and fiddled with his phone.

"Oh, right, and you are okay with me being," John gulped, "gay?"

"Why wouldn't I be? I see nothing illogical in finding sexual attraction in a person of the same sex. Besides people who display homophobia are often insecure in their own sexuality, I mean look at the rugby team. Clearly a third of the players are sexually frustrated because they are experiencing an attraction to a person of the same sex. Besides it would a bit right coming from me." Sherlock looked at John with those piercing blue eyes.

"Oh, so you're, er, you're gay too?" John blushed; he was a bit embarrassed by this whole conversation.

"Great deduction there Watson." Sherlock chuckled in that deep baritone; he rose and grabbed his long, black coat. "Well this has been sufficiently awkward, excuse me, but I need a fag. Pardon the pun." He was off.

John laughed as soon as Sherlock was out of the door. Yes it had certainly been awkward but not as much as it could have been. Now the question was, should he tell his mum and dad? They'd yell a lot, they did when Harry came out to them. Then again Harry had been very drunk and high as a kite the night she yelled, "Yeah, well I'm a lesbian too, hate me more!" John had locked himself in his room that night while they argued downstairs. He also agreed to himself that what his parents didn't know didn't hurt them (or him!).

Sherlock returned fifteen minutes later reeking of cigarette smoke.

"You really should stop with those you know; they're destroying your lungs!" John smiled at Sherlock, knowing it was a lost cause to try and get him to quit.

"Bah, breathing is boring." Sherlock retorted. "So are you done with your little identity crisis or am I to expect crying?" Sherlock asked as he carefully hung up his cat on the door and turned to his desk.

"Nah, I'm good, no crying—I promise." John chuckled.

~ o O o ~

The week went by horribly slow. John ended up as Sherlock's nursemaid; fetching homework, food—well John fetched the food that Sherlock rarely ate, and books from the library. By the end of the week John thought that he ought to feel like killing Sherlock but he somehow didn't. Sure he was annoyed with his dark haired roommate but he was perfectly content with the situation. One day John had some (no, cross that, a lot) of difficultly with a maths assignment, Sherlock, who by his own diagnoses, was dying of boredom, had noticed John's difficulty and decided to tutor him.

John wasn't given an option to accept Sherlock's help or not but he didn't mind, at least now he wouldn't fail maths. He didn't mind either how Sherlock kept calling him stupid or an idiot; he knew Sherlock really didn't mean anything by it.

John was also starting to enjoy spending time with Sherlock. Granted he wasn't easy to be around, but when you got know the gist of what he was like, John found he actually liked Sherlock's company. It was still in part because it was pretty much the only company he had, Greg and the lads were still wrapped up in football, but he did see them in class and during recess. They had practice every bloody night so John's only source of company was his annoying but utterly fascinating roommate.

Greg and the lads couldn't understand how John could stand being around Sherlock for more than fifteen minutes at a time. Mikkel was still Sherlock's chemistry partner and he had revelled in his Sherlock free week.

John loved listening to Sherlock rant on about their fellow pupils and teachers, deducing what they did, who they did, their secrets, and so on. John's marks in maths started to rise—only because of Sherlock's tutoring, while Sherlock was doing better in English and Chemistry due to John giving him some advice in how not to piss off everybody around him. Still he managed to piss off a couple of people but he wasn't beaten up as much as he used to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all you beautiful Sherlockians out there. Here is the fifth installment to this little drabble of mine, sorry for the delay but term has started again and both me and my lovely beta has been busy with coursework (DAMN YOU REAL LIFE!)
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this and for those of you who came for some Teenlock smut it will come soon enough.
> 
> Remember to Review. Cheers!
> 
> Lots of Love from idso…

It was almost the Christmas holidays and John was in two minds, he didn't want to go back home, but he didn't like the idea of staying at St. Bart's either. He pondered the scenarios of returning home; Harry being grumpy and getting incredibly drunk on eggnog (which dad always would spike enormously). He thought about his mum's dreadful cooking—which had gotten worse each year.

John growled and turned in his bed; Sherlock, who was still reading, even though it had gone past midnight, noticed John's agitation.

"You don't have to go back home if you don't want to you know."

John was taken aback by this—even now he still hadn't gotten used to Sherlock's omniscient abilities. He tried not to sound amazed as he replied.

"Yeah? Well you can't really skip out on your family can you? Even how fucked up they are," John sighed but continued on, "How about you? Are you going back home to your family?"

"Yes and no," Sherlock replied as he put his book down. "I am going home but my family won't be there. Mummy doesn't like the English winter so she will be abroad somewhere, I think she told me where but I didn't care to register it in my brain." He resumed his reading.

"Lucky you." John grunted and sat up, unable to fall asleep; he noticed Sherlock peaking over his book at him, looking like he wanted to say something.

"You clearly have something to say Sherlock, so out with it then, but if it's another deduction on how fucked up my family is, don't bother, I already know." John crossed his arms to prove his point. Sherlock hesitated momentarily but answered in a small voice that John had never heard from him before.

"Well, I just thought, since you don't want to go home or stay here, AND that you have expressed to me your desire to see London, that you might want to go home with me." Sherlock met John's eyes briefly, quickly looking away.

"You, you're serious?" John was flabbergasted.

"Yeah, our London house is enormous; we don't even have to see each other if you don't want to." Sherlock was looking down at his book. John pondered at this offer and Sherlock's last words carefully. Yeah he was a weird bloke but they got along quite well, they'd even shared a few laughs together.

"Yeah, alright." John said cheerfully. Sherlock looked up, he had clearly expected a refusal to his offer; John continued, "But…ehm…I, I don't have a lot of money to spend. I won't have you thinking I'm a smooch trying to get a free holiday in London!"

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh for god's sake John, don't worry about it, mummy usually stocks my account up with enough to feed and board an entire army. Besides it would be nice to have someone to talk to, my brother lives in the down house, but he is rarely at home, and we don't really get on." John could make out a faint flush on Sherlock's cheeks.

"Oh, well, if I'm not a burden to you then cheers Sherlock!" John smiled.

"No problem John." Sherlock turned off his bed light and drew his duvet over himself, "Well, goodnight then John."

"Goodnight Sherlock." John was finally able to fall asleep.

The next morning John woke up to find Sherlock's bed empty—not unusual though since he always got up early to go down and smoke before the teachers were up to nick him. John withdrew his laptop from under his bed and started to write an email to his mum. He knew it was a cowardly way of telling her, but he couldn't bear to phone her and listen to her crying. He made up a lie, telling her he would stay at school because of Mikkel and some of the other exchange students; Mikkel was going to spend Christmas in Denmark but his mum needn't know that.

~ oOo ~

Finally the last day of term arrived, alone with blistering winds and dazzling snowfall. There was a buzz in the air, a buzz of school free days, mince pies, and seasonal festivities. John rose and looked out the window, yet another good six inches of snow had fallen during the night. He really hoped that this wouldn't interfere with their journey to London.

Ah London, John longed to go, but they had assembly and such in the morning so they wouldn't leave until midday. John couldn't wait to see the big city. Really go and experience it. He had been before on boring school trips to see the usual sights such as Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, The National Portrait Gallery, and such, but he longed to stroll on the streets of London, experience the everyday life and bustle of London.

He didn't exactly know where in London Sherlock lived, he was guessing somewhere posh, but he decided just to enjoy himself in whatever that was thrown his way. Anything different to his usual Christmas had to be better—right?

Sherlock was already up, he was properly somewhere outside smoking half a packet of cancer sticks. John looked over at Sherlock's bed, his things neatly packed in a duffle bag and a backpack. John quickly dressed and went down to breakfast thinking that he'd pack later. He met up with Greg and the lads, they talked about their holiday plans; John hadn't told them that he was going back to London with Sherlock, they were horrible enough to him about their strange friendship—he didn't want to add kindle to the fire.

After breakfast they walked down to the assembly hall, John spotted Sherlock in the far end of the hall, looking utterly displeased. John hoped that he hadn't changed his mind about bringing him home. Mr. Grave got up to the podium and started to speak, it was as all Mr. Grave's speeches—long, dreary, and excellent for a sneaky kip. After an hour of endless mind torture they returned to their rooms.

"Er, Sherlock, what exactly do I need to bring? I haven't really got a suit, I know that your family is, is er," John hesitated and Sherlock quickly piped in.

"Unbelievably posh and arrogant?" John stopped dead as Sherlock said this.

"Err, I wouldn't put it like that Sherlock."

"But it is true," Sherlock grinned, "Don't worry John they won't be there, they usually aren't, just bring whatever you like, we've got plenty of towels and bedding so don't bother with that." Sherlock sent John a slight smile.

"Right-o," John returned the smile. "Oh, and err, Sherlock, are we, I mean,"

Sherlock beat him to it, "Are giving each other presents? Let's not bother shall we? Presents are such a dreary business and people always give me useless crap anyway." Sherlock sent John a smirk and grabbed his bags; John finished packing his bag.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked.

"Ready!" John replied as he heaved his large gym bag onto his shoulder.

They walked in silence down to town where the station was, it was only a couple miles or so but they didn't bother with a taxi for they were scarce in this part of the country. When they reached the station John went over to the ticket office but Sherlock yelled after him.

"No need John, Mother booked us both tickets."

John frowned and followed Sherlock onto the train. Sherlock looked at their tickets and left for the first class carriage. John looked amazed at the private compartment which Sherlock's mum had booked for them. He placed his bag on one of the seats and sat down opposite Sherlock. John gazed out of the window for a moment and then looked embarrassedly at his shoes and stuttered.

"Er, I will give you the money for the ticket when we reach London. I, err, I don't have that much with me in cash." Or in my savings for that matter John thought to himself.

"Oh there is no need John. Mother gladly pays, it's her way of showing affection. It pleases me to have her pay for the two of us." Sherlock chuckled, "I should have gotten a friend before, makes annoying her so much more pleasing." Sherlock smiled broadly, John sighed in relief.

"Right, if that's how you feel about it, then I'm happy to oblige mate." John laughed and looked back out the window.

The train ride was a direct one and lasted a couple of hours. Sherlock was keeping himself occupied with a scientific magazine of sorts and John was re-reading the sixth of the Harry Potter books. John read them all, once a year; it was a ritual of his since he first discovered them as a little child. He usually was done with them all by December, but all the homework he'd had had interfered with his plans. Even though he had read the book several times, he still found himself gasping, laughing and even shed a tear once in a while as he read. At one of those gasps Sherlock had looked up from his magazine and raised his eyebrow at John.

"Right John, why the hell are you doing those infirm noises, you clearly know the book inside out so why on earth are you still doing it?"

"Well it was just the inferi; they just scare the shit out of me. Still gets to me when they tried to pull Harry down under the water, argh, I just hate it!" John shrugged at the thought.

Sherlock gave John a quizzical look then turned his attention back to his magazine


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, here is chapter six, chapter seven is on its way too, again real life is taking for too much of my writing time so I try and write as much as I can, I beg for your patience.
> 
> It would be very lovely if you reviewed
> 
> cheers from idso..

The train ride felt shorter than it was; John had finished his book shortly before they reached London St. Pancras station. Sherlock grabbed his own bags and rushed out of the train. John exited the train and looked around the train station. It was massive, very tall, and slightly Victorian looking—you know, like it was made of Meccano.

"Come along John" Sherlock called out. John shook himself mentally and rushed after Sherlock. They headed out to the front gates near Kings Cross Station rather than the tube lines. John looked perplexedly at his dark haired friend but Sherlock spoke before John could voice his question.

"I'm not that keen on the tube, especially in this hour and time of year so we're taking a cab." He smiled at John. "Much easier when one is carrying luggage as well." Sherlock yelled out for a cab and got one instantly.

"Belgrave Place please," Sherlock said to the driver. The ride was twenty minutes due to the Christmas traffic. John was gaping out of the windows trying to take in everything; as they neared their destination John could certainly see the houses getting more and more expensive. They turned down to the Mall and John recognized it from his school trip to Buckingham Palace—they reached the house within five minutes of passing. After exiting the cab and gathering their bags, Sherlock paid the driver.

"You, you live near the Queen?" John asked aghast.

"Yes," Sherlock answered nonchalantly.

"Right."

John followed Sherlock up to the house; it was a white Victorian town house—he recognized from the period dramas his sister and mother forced him to watch as a boy. John looked up and down the road itself, it was adorned with the same sort of great Victorian town houses, all aligned with very expensive cars—Bentley's, Rolls Royce's, Mercedes, and the occasional sports car. Sherlock rummaged in his coat and produced a single key and then walked to the door. They entered a large hallway adorned with paintings, sculptures and grand flower arrangements.

Sherlock headed for the stairs and beckoned John to follow; they reached the landing and stood at the beginning of a long corridor with doors on either side. Sherlock entered the third door on the left; John followed him inside and looked around. A large four poster bed was in the centre of the room, a large wardrobe flanking one of its sides—John expected that if he peeked inside he might just see Aslan there. On the other side of the bed was a large, antique looking chest of drawers, a door leading into the en suite bath in original art deco style. John gawped as he glanced around the room at a total loss for words; Sherlock sent him a nervous look.

"I hope it is satisfactory John, it is not the largest of the guest rooms, but it is directly across the hall from my own room. I thought it would be more convenient, but if you want the master guest room I…er" John stopped Sherlock with a raised hand.

"It is absolutely amazing Sherlock. It's bloody well bigger than the entire first floor back home!" John sent him a warm smile, trying to express his deepest gratitude towards his dark haired friend.

"Ah, well I, er…I'll leave you to settle then. There should be loads of towels ready in the bathroom if you'd like a shower. I thought we might go out for an early dinner since you've only had a sandwich on the train."

"That sounds great, thanks Sherlock!"

"Great, if you need anything I'll be right across the hall."

At that Sherlock left the room and John eyed the enormous bed; he made sure he was totally alone before sprinting towards it and jumping onto it—as one always does when one is presented with such a bounce worthy bed! John laughed at the ridiculousness of it all; Sherlock's family was just so unbelievably posh, very much unlike his own working class, drinking beer-out-of-a-bottle sort of family.

John unpacked his things quickly (not that there was a hell of a lot to unpack) and went to the bathroom. He eyed the enormous bathtub and smiled.

"Oh, another time baby." He went to the ludicrously art deco adorned shower instead. He gave a slight involuntary moan as the soothing hot water caressed his body and washed away the smell of travelling.

He dried himself off with a huge fluffy towel, embroidered in gold was the Holmes family crest. He dressed himself in a pair of dark brown jeans and a green t-shirt; he draped his black jacket over his arm and went over to Sherlock's room and knocked. Sherlock's voice called out enter, John went in and closed the door behind him.

"Hey Sherlock I th—" John stopped dead, "Oh, Jesus Sherlock, I'm sorry!" John turned and looked the other way. He had found his dark haired friend in nothing but a pair of tightly fitted briefs bending over his own chest of drawers. John could feel a blush creeping over his cheeks and he stood looking firmly at the door.

"Why are you apologizing John?" Sherlock asked in a perplexed tone.

"Because you are in your pants Sherlock, almost bloody well naked!" John cried out.

"I am not naked, besides we are both acquainted with the male form, therefore it should not matter whether or not I am naked." Sherlock said in a matter of fact voice.

"Yeah, still Sherlock, bit awkward mate." John turned to look at Sherlock, trying to keep his gaze on his friends face but he couldn't help himself from sneaking a peak at his friend's physique. Sherlock was long in all his limbs and thin, far too thin for John's liking. Sherlock had a light sprinkling of dark hair on his chest, and from his navel down to his, well you get the picture; from what John could see Sherlock's gentleman's area was as the rest of him, long and thin.

Sherlock dressed himself in black slacks and a white button up shirt, topping it off with a black blazer—John looked down at himself in comparison.

"Are we going somewhere posh? For I, er, might need to go change then." John blushed slightly as he diverted his gaze to his shoes.

"Oh no, not at all John, this is how I normally dress. It is what I feel most comfortable in." Sherlock smiled. "You look perfectly fine John." John sighed in relief, watching as Sherlock grabbed his key, phone and wallet.

"Ready when you are John." Sherlock said while straightening his clothes. John gave a nod and followed Sherlock out of the room, downstairs and outside.

Sherlock locked the door the turned to John, "I have a small Chinese place in mind, just a few streets away. You can always tell a good Chinese place by examining the bottom third of the door handle." Sherlock glanced over John, "I know you have slight problems with your legs, so if you'd like we could get a cab instead of walking."

"No, no I'd rather walk. They're not that bad at the moment, but thanks for the consideration mate." John gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder.

They walked on, Sherlock talking about the neighbourhood; he pointed out an alley saying that was the first place he got beaten up when he was a kid. John wondered how many times his brilliant friend had been beaten up because of his enormous brain and decrepit social skills. All the houses they passed were, in John's standards, posh and incredibly so. Sherlock kept on talking about this and that in the area and then suddenly went quiet, looking carefully at John.

"You are very quiet John, I er, I hope I am not boring you." Sherlock looked down at his shoes and then at John.

"Oh no, no not at all Sherlock, I am just taking it all in. Your childhood memories, the buildings, the fact that I am in bloody London at Christmas time, without my parents knowing; I've never felt so free! And I feel like a proper teenager, doing rebellious stuff. I've always been careful Good-boy-next-door-Watson, but look at me now." John smiled so bright it radiated around him. He looked over at Sherlock and saw that he too was beaming.

They walked on a little further before they reached the restaurant. Once inside they were greeted at once by a waiter.

"Ah, Master Sherlock, long time no see!" The waiter said in a thick Chinese accent.

"I have been away at school Cho, a table for two please." They were ushered to a table in a secluded corner. They ordered and got their drinks very quickly. John thought it odd, especially since the restaurant was very busy. Sherlock's family must be well known and well connected he thought. The waiter, Cho, came back with a tea light lantern and placed it in the middle of the table.

"More romantic for you and your date Master Sherlock." He bowed and walked away before John could contradict him.

"So, do you usually bring your dates here then?" John giggled, glad Sherlock joined in.

"Only the good ones." Sherlock joked on. John giggled into his hand as their food arrived.

"Thank you Cho." Sherlock smiled lightly at the man and began to poke at his food while John gulped down some water and began shuffling down his dinner. He didn't realize how hungry he was before now. After about fifteen minutes of silent eating, John noticed that Sherlock hadn't really eaten anything off of his place. He sighed.

"Sherlock Holmes, eat! We've had a long day and you need to keep your body going, fuel up mate! Or do I have to forced feed you again?" John gave Sherlock a most stern look. Sherlock saw the seriousness in John's eyes and began to eat his food.

"There's a good lad." John smiled and finished off his meal. Sherlock ate most of his food and gave John a pleased now kind of look which John reciprocated with a smile.

Sherlock paid for the meal, once again insisting that he made his mother pay. John should be feeling bad, and he did just bit, for making Sherlock pay, but somehow he didn't care anymore.

"So Watson, what would you like to do now?" Sherlock asked as they left the restaurant. John pondered this, it was about eight in the evening, but he was knackered.

"I don't know, just heading back to the house and chill in front of the telly? I'm just exhausted after a day full of experiences and new impressions."

"Of course John, telly, a cuppa, then early bed today for an early start tomorrow then?" Sherlock smiled.

"Sounds just the ticket."

The boys walked back to the house in silence, comfortable silence that is. John was taking in the splendour that was London by night. He peered into the windows of homes they passed, catching glimpses of regular family lives—decorated houses with happy-family families enjoying the buzz of Christmas. He had never really had that. He'd had nights of stressed dinners followed by rows, drunken relatives, and spending the rest of the night in his room reading or playing on his computer.

John was far too deep in his own thoughts to have noticed they had reached the house; Sherlock unlocked the door and beckoned John inside. John had only seen the first floor, well some of it, so he took in everything when he saw the inside of the room they actually entered. It was a huge kitchen; everything kept in stainless steel, white tiles, and everything it its own place. It was a bit clinical for John's taste but he thought the Holmes family wouldn't usually cook or spend any time in the kitchen.

"Mother has the servants with her to wherever she is so we have to manage ourselves John. There is a lady, Mrs. Hughes, who comes to clean and wash when needed, so tea?" Sherlock spoke as he filled the kettle.

"Please let me Sherlock, you don't have to do everything yourself, just sit down and tell me where to find the stuff I need."

Sherlock sat down on one of the bar stools and directed John around. John handed Sherlock his cup once finished; they left the kitchen and headed through the hallway.

"You know what, I don't really fancy watching telly tonight, can't we just go and chat in your room? I'd very much like to see it properly, see if it's filled with disgusting experiments too." John smiled. Sherlock nodded and walked upstairs.

He hesitantly went inside his own room, sitting on his bed with his cuppa in hand. He took a sip, good god John could make a decent cuppa. He watched as John looked around.

It was as large as John's guest room, but very Sherlock. Large bookshelves adorned a back wall, completely stuffed with books, a large wooden desk was absolutely covered in papers, books and weird stuff in glass jars. John sat down next to Sherlock on the bed and drank his tea.

"Do you find it nice to be back home Sherlock?" John asked politely.

"Home, well this is defined as my home, though I've never had an emotional bond with it as one usually has with the place they call home. It's better to be here then at St. Barts, no bullies, no annoying teachers, just peace and quiet, and good company."

"Ah, cheers Sherlock." John raised his mug to Sherlock.

John quietly finished his tea and then rose to his feet.

"Well I'm off to bed, I'm knackered. Thank you for a great day Sherlock, what time tomorrow?"

"Well, how about a lie in? Sleep until you wake, come knock on my door, I usually don't sleep, not much anyway, and then we can decide what to do. Does that sound agreeable?"

"You don't sleep? God I'm too tired for that conversation. Good night Sherlock and thanks again for a fantastic day." John smiled and Sherlock reciprocated.

He placed his mug on Sherlock's bedside table and went over to his own room. He changed into his pyjamas and lied down, he fell asleep immediately.


	7. Chapter 7

John woke up feeling well rested, perhaps the most rested he had ever felt in the sixteen years of his life. He felt the mushy comfortable bed beneath him; the duvet felt like a hug, snuggling him from above, and the pillow a gentle caress to his face beneath his head. He sighed—a sigh of comfort and utter bliss—the bliss you only get from lying on the perfect bed.  
Opening his eyes, John was confused for a slight moment before he remembered where he was—he smiled. He was in London, without his parents knowing, just him and his mate Sherlock, for Christmas. He shifted and looked at his phone; it was just 8.53, so he hadn't overslept. Rising, then moving to his wardrobe he was slightly disappointed not to find Aslan there after all, but he did find what he was looking for, a dark green dressing gown. He put in on over his pyjamas and listened if he could hear Sherlock bustling in the kitchen or elsewhere, then realized it was such a great big house he wouldn't be able to hear him anyways.  
Venturing out into the corridor over to Sherlock's room he knocked softly but got his answer immediately; a loud enter.  
John opened the door and held his hand to his eyes:  
"Are you decent or are you just in your pants again?" John giggled.  
"I'm decent enough." John could hear Sherlock's voice had a slight tremor of a giggle too. John removed his hand to find Sherlock in his pyjamas and a burgundy dressing gown sitting hunched over his desk, clearly deeply concentrated on some experiment with a cigarette in one of his hands.  
"How long have you been up?" John asked aghast.  
"What time is it now?" Sherlock asked without looking up.  
"Just about nine."  
"Well, I've been for four hours and thirty-six minutes then." Sherlock still wasn't looking up.  
"Jesus Sherlock, don't you ever sleep?"  
"Sleep is boring." Sherlock huffed.  
"Well I'm hungry; I'm going downstairs to get something to eat and a cuppa, care to join me Master Holmes?"  
"I'll just finish this up, you go on down. I'll be with you shortly Mister Watson." Sherlock smirked at John then continued on with his experiment.  
John went downstairs to the luxurious kitchen and put the kettle on; before doing anything he needed a morning cuppa. He opened the fridge hoping there would be something edible in there, he was astonished when he saw it completely stocked with everything; yoghurts, fruit, different kinds of jams, bread, butter—both regular and low fat, and loads of milk.  
John grabbed the bread and searched for the toaster—or at least one. He found one and it looked completely brand new; stainless steel, some really expensive brand—as were all the appliances he had seen so far.  
He found the tea and pulled out two large mugs, placing the bags in, and then added the hot water, sugar and milk. He knew Sherlock liked his tea quite sweet; well John knew that Sherlock was quite fond of sugar in general, he was an addict. Not to drugs (that he knew of) but an addict nevertheless—sugar, nicotine, and knowledge.  
Sherlock came into the room puffing on another cigarette, he sat down on one of the four stools that aligned the kitchen isle; John knew that it was built to look smart, probably only the staff would eat there. Sherlock grabbed the already made tea and gulped down a large mouthful, he closed his eyes and let out a satisfied mmmh.  
"How is it you know exactly how to make a perfect cup of tea John?"  
"Years of practice, or I have secret tea making powers unknown to anyone but me." John laughed while he buttered the toast. "Do you want jam on yours or just butter?" He asked, already knowing what the answer would be.  
"Nothing but tea for me, thank you." Sherlock said as he swiped his finger on his phone.  
"Sherlock you have to eat, how many fucking times do I need to tell you?" John frowned.  
"You bloody well made me eat yesterday, why the hell do I need to do it again this morning?"  
"Because Sherlock, normally people eat three times a day!"  
"Eating is boring, it slows me down John." Sherlock scowled at John while he drank down another gulp of tea. John forced a piece of buttered toast with jam into Sherlock's face.  
"Eat or I won't make you tea ever again." Sherlock frowned, put his phone on the table and took the toast. He looked at it like it had insulted him then forcefully bit a large piece off and chewed with the anger of a thousand burning suns.  
"Thank you Sherlock. Now, we have two days until Christmas Eve, what should we do?" John chewed on his own toast; Sherlock swallowed the last of his and washed it down with another gulp of his tea.  
"Well, tomorrow will be absolute murder in the city so I suggest that we go sightseeing today. I need to buy some things anyway. I guess you'll want to see the usual sights? Buckingham Palace, the Squares, Convent Garden and so on?"  
John pondered this for a moment, "Nah, I've seen those on school trips; I thought you perhaps could show me your favourite places?" Sherlock gave John a look of amazement; he clearly hadn't expected that John saw him.  
"Oh, and perhaps a visit to The British Museum? We never went there with school and I would really like to go and see the Egyptology department there."  
"Right then, I guess you want to avoid the bustle of the commuters so my suggestion is that we leave as soon as have eaten and dressed, would you like to shower first?"  
"I had one early evening yesterday, and I guess I would rather need it when we get back so I think I'll skip this morning. Ahm, Sherlock, can we go on the tube instead of taking a cab? I've always wanted to ride on the tube without adult supervision." John blushed slightly; he knew this might sound like an odd request.  
"Yeah alright, I've got two oyster cards so that wouldn't be a problem." Sherlock smiled and drank the rest of his tea. John followed suit; Sherlock was heading out of the door.  
"Eh Sherlock, shouldn't we clean up here after us?" John asked.  
"Don't bother, as soon as we're out of the door my dearest brother will send someone over to clean." Sherlock huffed.  
"Right and how will know we've left?"  
"He occupies a minor position in the British government, I bet he'll follow us on CCTV or have people looking out for us." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.  
John nodded and followed Sherlock upstairs to their rooms. He looked out of the window; it was still snowing so he dressed in jeans, warm socks, t-shirt and a woolen jumper, and grabbed his scarf and coat. He double checked he had his phone and wallet with him before going to meet up with Sherlock. Sherlock was dressed in his large charcoal coat, a dark blue scarf—his tangled curls were neatly forced down.  
They headed outside and walked to the nearest tube station. They took the Victoria line, changing to the Piccadilly and got off at Convent Garden; John looked bemused at Sherlock.  
"Convent Garden? Is that one of your favourite places?"  
Sherlock gave him a slightly affronted look. "Yes. It's the perfect place to people watch. I practice my deduction skills here, there are a variety of people—regular Londoners, tourists, and street performers."  
The boys looked around for a bit; it was beautifully decorated—a huge Christmas tree adorned the square. They walked on towards Trafalgar Square, passing Leicester Square on the way. John tried not to act the tourist but he couldn't contain himself from taking loads of pictures with his phone.  
While at Trafalgar Square, Sherlock needed to buy some cigarettes so John sat down on the fountain and waited. He took a picture of himself with Lord Nelson in the background; he almost set it as his facebook picture but remembered that his sister would tell his mum and dad if he did.  
Sherlock came back with two cups of steaming tea and sat down next to John. He lit up a cigarette and took a long drag; closing his eyes as he did, exhaling the smoke over their heads.  
"Are you enjoying our little London adventure John?" Sherlock asked, rolling the cigarette between his fingers.  
John drank a gulp of tea, gasping a bit from the scolding sensation. "Yes, London at Christmas time is just so unbelievably beautiful!" He sighed in appreciation.  
"You should see it by night, it's breathtaking." Sherlock responded, taking another drag, finishing his cigarette.  
They began to walk on once more; John didn't really attention to where they went. Sherlock said he needed to buy something else so they headed to wherever that was. It turned out to be a chemist. Sherlock bought two bag-full's of stuff for his experiments. John was feeling a bit hungry, he ran a hand across his stomach; Sherlock led them to a small restaurant.  
"I noticed you were hungry John, so what do you want?"  
"Ahm, a sandwich of sorts I think." He looked over the menu, it was bleeding expensive; a hundred quid for a sandwich! John swallowed thickly and looked for something less expensive. Sherlock waved for a waiter.  
"Two of your club sandwich plates please and two large cokes." Sherlock smiled at John. "And you aren't paying, my dear mother is, remember?"  
John hated being poor, he only got in at Bart's on a biology scholarship. Their food and drink came; John tucked in but Sherlock only picked at his. John gave him a stern look and Sherlock began to eat. Clearly John was starting to get through to Sherlock, he smiled at that thought.  
When they had finished, or John had finished and Sherlock ate half of his, Sherlock paid using the credit card his mum had given him, they walked outside the restaurant, but stopped dead outside an alley way.  
"What is it Sherlock?" John asked, carrying Sherlock's bags of chemicals. Sherlock didn't answer but walked down the alley; John didn't like this.  
Sherlock disappeared behind some garbage containers and he heard a yelp. John ran as fast as he could towards the noise and saw that Sherlock had someone locked in a half nelson behind the bins.  
"What the hell Sherlock?" John cried out.  
"I saw this man inside the restaurant; he clearly looked like someone who wanted to get away very quickly. I noticed him bumping into someone before leaving and then putting something in his coat. Upon further inspection I found this," Sherlock held up a leather wallet, "Inside is a driver's licence of a 56 year old man, the man in which he bumped into before leaving; the owner will be missing his wallet by now. John would you be so kind as to phone the police and tell them we've apprehended a pick pocket?"  
The man under Sherlock was shuffling a lot but Sherlock was holding him in place. John quickly phone the police and they arrived ten minutes later; the boys were questioned. Luckily Sherlock managed to talk them out of a trip to the station and before they knew it he and John were in a cab on their back to Belgrave Place. They entered the house and Sherlock discarded his coat and scarf, John following suit.  
"What the hell Sherlock? Can't you just a normal fucking day?"  
"Normal's boring John." Sherlock smiled.  
"Well I am going to try and have a normal evening. I will go upstairs and try out that huge bathtub."  
John made his way upstairs to his washroom and started to run the bath. He found some clean clothes but discarded them, he fancied an evening in his jim jams with a steaming cuppa and with any luck, some Doctor Who on the telly.  
He plunged into the warm soothing bath, letting the warm water caress his entire body. What a day he thought; first of all seeing London at Christmas time, again being in London with his best mate without any adult supervision, and lastly, tracking down a criminal and getting him arrested. He had a feeling that his life would be out of the range of normal if he kept hanging out with Sherlock.  
The thought of not hanging out with Sherlock brought an overwhelming bit of sadness to John. Sure he was arrogant, annoying and a bit fuck all, but John liked that about him. He was so different to himself, his life and upbringing, but in spite of that they fit so well. Sherlock taught John stuff about maths and science, about people and body language, and John hoped that Sherlock learned from him about socializing, human behaviour, and how to—relatively and acceptably—behave with others.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say that alcohol will not really show up in this, I know it is completely weird since the lads are teenagers BUT I myself doesnt drink, or go to parties or have ANY experience in the matter, I apologize. enjoy ~ idso

John got out of the bath looking like a raisin, he had spent far too much time in there thinking. He dressed himself in his pyjamas and went to listen at Sherlock's door; there was some muted shuffling from the other side so he knocked.

"Oh for fucks sake John, you don't have to knock, just come in would you?"

John shook his head at the exclamation but took no further notice of it.

"Nice to see you too" he giggled. Sherlock looked up from his desk and glanced suspiciously over at John.

"Sarcasm?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, sarcasm. So what are you up to Sherlock?" John asked as he sat down on Sherlock's bed. It was incredibly messy for one who barely slept. John's mind fleetingly imagined what Sherlock might be doing to rumple the bed rather than sleeping, but his inner voice told him not to go there.

"Experiment, you wouldn't understand." Sherlock huffed.

"Right, 'cos I'm just an idiot," John growled.

"Oh, you know I don't mean it like that John, stop acting like a premenstrual teenage girl, it doesn't suit you." Sherlock huffed and John tried to hide his smile.

"Well I will take my premenstrual teenage girl mood down to the living room and watch some telly. Perhaps I'll cook something later; I'm not asking if you want anything because if I bloody well cook for you, you will bloody well eat it, alright?" With that John left the room, leaving a startled Sherlock in his wake.

John glanced at his phone, it was almost five. He went downstairs first to the kitchen to make a cuppa, then to the living room for some channel hopping. He came across a documentary of army doctors and watched it; interesting stuff about being both, a doctor and a soldier. When it was over he went to the kitchen to find something to cook. He wagered that I would be stocked pretty much with anything and when he opened the fridge he was certainly not disappointed—a whole chicken was in there, free range and organic.

"Of course it would be," John huffed to himself. He went through the whole fridge and kitchen and found everything he needed for a good curry. He started cooking; he was singing to himself as he cooked. He was so engrossed in both activities he didn't notice Sherlock leaning against the doorframe so when John turned around dancing and singing something very enthusiastically, he almost dropped the spoon he was holding.

"OH fucking hell Sherlock! When the hell did you come down?" John was mortified.

"Right about halfway through 'It's Raining Men,'" Sherlock giggled.

"Oh, err, right, did you want something?" John asked; a flush blossoming across his face.

"No, I could, ehm, just smell your cooking and I, err, I thought I would come down and see if you had burned down the kitchen yet." Sherlock said as he scratched his dark curls.

"Ha, ha, very funny young Master Holmes, now that you're here, would you like to set the table while I drain the rice? The food's pretty much done now." John asked as he turned back to the pots, stirring one of them.

Sherlock nodded and found the places and cutlery. John placed the pots on the table and served up a plate for each of them. Sherlock fiddled a bit with food, shuffling it along his plate with his fork. John sent him a look, one Sherlock knew all too well. He tasted the food with caution. Apparently he liked it because he started shovelling in the curry. John smiled and carried on eating in silence.

When they were done eating John cleared the table and started to put things in the dishwasher. Sherlock was fiddling with his phone. When John was satisfied with the state of the kitchen he put the kettle on and started to make tea.

"My plans are to sit in front of the telly with a cuppa, care to join me or would you rather get back to your experiments? Which is fine by the way." John asked while toying with the kettle and his cup.

"I have just about an hour before I can continue the experiment, it needs to, err, brew," Sherlock looked at the tea, "So I think I might try some mundane way of passing the time, such as watching telly." Sherlock's emphases of the latter didn't go unnoticed.

"Tea's ready, let's go into the living room." John handed Sherlock a cup and made his way into the other room. Sherlock claimed the couch, sprawled across it, all legs and angles, while John sat in one of the comfy armchairs. John was keen on some Top Gear reruns on Dave. Sherlock gave up watching since it didn't interest him, he therefore browsed stuff online on his phone. They sat like that until Sherlock's phone went off—it was the alarm.

"Gotta dash, the experiment is ready for further investigation." Sherlock paused in the entryway, "Thanks for the dinner and tea." He even smiled; one of the few times John actually saw him smile. John reciprocated and as Sherlock disappeared, turned his attention back to the program. As Jezza was shouting "power" and cocking something up, John drifted off.

He was in some alleyway, he looked around—there was no sign of Sherlock. He shouted for him, no answer. He began running around, panicking as the alley seemed to lead to nowhere, until he saw a dark shadow on the ground. He ran to it. As he got closer he recognized the outline of the figure—long, lean, covered in a long, black coat. John hesitated before moving forward. He had to turn the figure over, had to know if it was—as he turned the figure over John saw that beautiful face, covered in blood and bruises.

"No, no, no, nooooooooooooooooooo!" John screamed and was jolted awake as he fell off the armchair. It took him a couple seconds before he actually registered he was awake—it had been a dream, a bad one. John heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and the door flew open.

"John?!" The familiar voice called out, shaking with fear. John sat up on the floor, his back against the chair; he could feel Sherlock's hands on him.

"Are you okay? Are you alright? What happened?!" Sherlock's piercing blue eyes looked directly into John's.

"I'm, I'm okay, don't fuss Sherlock. I just fell asleep and had a bad dream." John said a bit embarrassed.

"It didn't sound like just a bad dream to me John, you sounded absolutely terrified and you screamed." Sherlock pressed.

"Like I said, a really bad dream." John tried to convince Sherlock nothing was wrong.

"I'm going to bed Sherlock, goodnight." John rose and trotted upstairs, leaving behind a rather perplexed Sherlock. He entered his room and threw himself on the bed. Trying to make sense of the dream, but the conclusions his brain ended up with did not please him. He knocked back a paracetemol and went to sleep. He was knackered by the exhaustions of the day and the lovely, calming paracetemol was seeping through his system.

John slept for a very long time, undisturbed by nightmares this time. Though when he woke late the next day fragments of the dream he had flew through his mind—a long, pale, male form, a bed of roses, grunts and a different type of screaming. He shook his head and threw off the duvet.

"Oh for fucks sake!" John cried out when he saw the raging morning wood he had. He shuffled off to the shower and took care of it.

When he made it downstairs Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John made breakfast, well more like lunch since it was 11.30, but he didn't care. He ate in front of the telly, watching some Christmassy themed program. He didn't pay much attention to it though; he just needed some background noise—what the fuck was going on with him?

First he caught himself staring at Sherlock when he was half naked, second of all he had dreams about him—bad ones about losing him and weird ones involving them in compromising positions. He gave it up as some hormone crazy teenage disease and went on with his day.

Sherlock appeared in the living room an hour later looking more or less as the living dead.

"Did you sleep at all last night?!" John asked.

"Couldn't, had to finish the experiment." Sherlock grumbled.

"Any good results then?"

"Plenty," Sherlock huffed indifferently. "I see you slept, not well though, your eyes are baggy."

"You really got that special skill of making a bloke feel fantastic Sherlock." John snarled. Sherlock paused for a moment and looked hesitantly at John.

"Sarcasm?" He asked, John only responded with a thumbs up.

"Any plans for the day?" Sherlock asked.

"Not a single one. I was thinking of heading down to the shops for a hell of a lot of snacks, but I recon' this house works just like magic, I think about something hard enough and it will pop up somewhere." John stared at the telly. Sherlock mumbled something under his breath, something that sounded a lot like Mycroft and minor position my arse; John didn't question him.

"How about you Sherlock?" John asked, trying to ignore and divert the dark haired boy's mumbling.

"No, not really, I mean there are loads of experiments I want to do but they could be set aside if you wanted to do something." Sherlock said, a slight blush covering his cheeks. John was a bit taken back by this, it wasn't usual for Sherlock to act so selfless. He usually sat his own needs first; John had come to know and accept that about his friend.

"Sherlock, you don't need to entertain me if that's what you're thinking, I can do something by myself. I don't want to be a nuisance to you."

"You…you're not a nuisance John. I just thought it would be nice to do something, perhaps just go for a walk. London is quite a sight at Christmas, especially when it's dark. I thought we could go out and eat tonight, then walk around." Sherlock's blush deepened. "That is if you, ehm, want to."

"Yeah, that sounds great Sherlock, cheers. So when were you thinking we would head out?" John asked, trying to subdue the butterflies that were starting to form in his stomach.

"Perhaps dinner at seven? So we set off at around five?" Sherlock gave John one of those looks again, those eyes that would read you in an instant, usually cold and a piercing blue, were now a warmer turquoise and softer in their gaze.

"Right-o, plenty of time for you to do your experiments in and plenty of time for me to watch some cheesy Christmassy movies." John smiled and Sherlock reciprocated with a smirk and left the room.

John pulled out his phone, checked Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr. He wrote a quick status update on facebook, careful to disable location. The last thing he needed was for his sister to rat him out to their parents.  
He tucked himself in on the sofa and stared at the telly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello all you beautiful readers, just wanted to let you all know how much I love your kind reviews and the fact that you read this nonsense of mine. a huge thank you to Rubberbird who mentioned this fic on Tumblr, thanks hon!
> 
> Allons-y!

John channel hopped for a while before he stumbled upon an announcer saying that the Jim Carrey version of "A Christmas Carol" was just about to start. He headed to the kitchen, made an entire pot of tea, grabbed two rolls of Hobnobs and settled down in front of the telly.

He could hear Sherlock shuffling around upstairs—no loud thumps or crashing yet.

After a good half hour John heard footsteps descending the stairs, just Sherlock needing a cuppa he thought; after about ten minutes time Sherlock entered the living room with a steaming cuppa in his hands.

"Can I join you?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

God was he acting strange John thought, but this was better than a moody and self-destructive Sherlock. John had even noticed that he wasn't smoking more than one or two a day now (well, what he saw and smelled anyway).

"Sure, and Sherlock, you don't have to ask, we're mates right? If I didn't want you here I'd have chucked you out of the room, okay? Besides, this is your house." John laughed.

Sherlock sat himself next to him on the sofa, again very strange; he usually took up one of the large armchairs.

"What are we watching?" Sherlock asked as he nicked a Hobnob.

"A Christmas Carol, the Jim Carrey one," John answered taking a sip of his tea. "Have you read the book?" He looked over at Sherlock.

"Of course I have," Sherlock snarled, keeping his gaze on the telly. Ah, there was the Sherlock John knew and it made him smile.

"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock asked; god that boy doesn't miss a thing does he?

"Oh, nothing, nothing," John replied, keeping his cool.

Sherlock was squirming on the sofa while they watched the film. By the end, Sherlock was half-lying, half-sitting, so his toes just about touched John's thigh. John felt the heat radiating from Sherlock—his stomach made a summersault. He once again did all he could to mute his subconscious thoughts.

The film ended around three o'clock; John rose to go to the loo while Sherlock stayed on the couch. John looked over, Sherlock had fallen asleep. John smiled and covered him with a blanket.

Coming back from the loo John took notice of Sherlock's shifting. He was turned around, now lying on his side with his face firmly planted in the pillow John had been sitting against. John smiled again and gathered up the mugs, pot and rubbish, cleaned up the kitchen and headed upstairs for a shower and change of clothes before they went out. He smiled at the thought—when they went out—Sherlock had in fact suggested what most people would consider a date, but John knew better. Sherlock didn't date. Sherlock had not in the four months they had known each other, make one sign of being interested in dating anyone, girls or boys.

A sixteen year old bloke would have, at some point during four months, talked of sex, boobs, girls, boys, or things alike. Even when John had to go to the loo during the night, he hadn't caught Sherlock masturbating or anything. John had resolved that perhaps Sherlock was in fact asexual.

John threw his clothes in the hamper, which was already full by now. Geesh, no wonder his mum was bitching on about the amount of washing a teenage boy produced. He went off to the shower. He dressed into a pair of black jeans and his black and white striped jumper. Upon his return downstairs he took his laundry with him, searching for a washing room. He found one in the basement; yes, the house had a basement too apparently. He sorted his clothes out like his mum taught him and started the washing machine.

He went back upstairs and checked the living room, he found the sofa Sherlock-less—he had woken during John's shower. John ventured upstairs and knocked on Sherlock's door.

"Oh come on in Watson," Sherlock yelled from the other side. He was lying, sprawled on his bed reading a magazine of sorts in nothing but boxers and his burgundy dressing gown—which covered neither chest nor boxers.

"Geesh, Sherlock, put some clothes on would you?" John huffed.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, utterly perplexed.

"Because, argh, never mind, I know arguing with you is a lost cause." John resigned and sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, trying his best not to sneak a peek.

"Why did you not wake me?" Sherlock asked, clearly offended.

"Well, you don't really sleep, so I thought that a nap would do you good."

"Do me good? Oh, please! Only the simple minded need that much sleep, I function quite well on four hours or less." Sherlock huffed, not looking away from the magazine. John laughed. Sherlock looked up at him, confused by the laughter.

"You did it again Sherlock, offended me, by saying that, you basically called me an idiot." John shook his head.

"You know I don't mean you, John." Sherlock slammed down the magazine on the bed stand and sat up next to him.

"Let me put on some clothes and we're off okay?" Sherlock asked, trying for a friendly tone. It did not convince John.

"Yeah alright, I'll pop to my room."

"Oh don't be silly, it'll only take me two seconds. Besides you've already changed and have your stuff in your pockets," at that Sherlock discarded the dressing gown and put on a pair of black slacks and a tight fitted, deep purple, shirt. He grabbed his phone, keys, and walled from his desk.

"Ready when you are Watson." Sherlock held the door open and John jumped from the bed and rushed out of the room.

They walked through St. James' Park; John saw all the brilliant Christmas lights. A lot of families were taking a walk before the hectic of Christmas was upon them. John marveled at the sights. It was just so beautiful.

They bought two coffees to go from a vendor and drank while they walked. They stopped by Buckingham Palace to have a look at the splendor of it all. They continued down the Mall and walked in the direction of Convent Garden. Sherlock and John chatted idly away as they walked. Sherlock doing most of the talking since it was about his experiments, but John listened gladly. He wasn't bad at chemistry and physics, but Sherlock was a bit (well loads) more advanced than he was. He still listened gladly to the rambling of his friend.

John quickly snapped a photo of Sherlock by the Convent Garden Christmas tree when he was looking away. Sherlock led them to a restaurant down a secluded road. The owner seemed to know him.

"Ah, mister Sherlock, good to see you; whatever you and your date want it's on the house okay." The man was clearly Italian.

"I'm not his—" but the man was gone before John could finish his sentence. John looked over at Sherlock. "Do you know every single restaurant owner in the greater London area?"

"No, only the good ones; I helped Udolpho out when he was in a dodgy situation, mostly due to tax fraud." Sherlock said as he skimmed the menu.

"Right," John knew better than to ask further; he looked down the menu too. "I think I'll have the spaghetti a la carbonara."

Sherlock looked over at Udolpho and he came rushing towards them.

"The spaghetti a la carbonara, the tomato soup, and two large cokes, please." Sherlock ordered for them.

"Very good Mr. Holmes, for you I shall make it myself!" Udolpho then yelled something in Italian to his waiter and went into the kitchens.

"So John, are you enjoying your visit here in London, or are you regretting it? Wanting to be back with your family?" Sherlock asked.

"Very much, not one bit of regret from me. I would be cooped up in my bedroom playing Amnesia or something if I was back home. This is much better. I could get used to this, not having anyone other than ourselves to answer to." John blushed a bit, he had accidently insinuated that he wanted to move in with Sherlock.

"Amnesia?" Sherlock asked, John's insides sighed with relief. Sherlock had either not picked up on his insinuation or he had the courtesy to not bring it up.

"It's a horror game, for us simple minded mortals." John smiled.

Their drinks arrived and their food followed soon after. They ate in silence, a comfortable silence though. John thought about the idea of living with Sherlock, in London, when they left St. Barts. He could really picture that, but he still didn't really know what he wanted to do when he left Barts, perhaps he could—

"Shut up." Sherlock said, dragging John back to reality.

"I haven't said anything!" John hissed

"No, but you are thinking, very loudly." Sherlock huffed.

"Oh come on, even the great mastermind of Sherlock Holmes can't read minds." John laughed, but a slight worry came across his mind, "Can you?"

"Of course I can't. No one can, but your face is showing it and it's slightly off putting." Sherlock said as he finished his soup.

"I'm sorry?" John said, finishing his spaghetti and drinking the last of his coke.

"I'm in dying need of a fag, let's get out of here."

Sherlock got the attention of Udolpho, and after a bit of bickering between the two, Udolpho got his way and the two of them thanked him for a free meal.

They got a cab home; John had begun to feel the strain on his dodgy leg. They arrived home around nine; Sherlock went upstairs to work on some of his experiments. John borrowed a book from the massive collection in the library—of course they had a freaking library in the mega house too.

John went to Sherlock's room, knocked and went in.

"Well I'm settling for the night, goodnight Sherlock, and thank you for a great day."

Sherlock looked up from his experiment and gave John a vague hint of a smile, "You too, John, goodnight."

John left Sherlock's room and headed to his own. Changed into his pyjamas and snuggled up in the huge and incredibly comfy bed and started to read. He had read the book several times before but it was one of his guilty pleasures. The idea of Neverland, of never growing up; as a kid he often wished he was one of the lost boys, taken by Peter Pan to Neverland—a place with no arguing parents, drunken sisters, or expectations.

He read on late into the night, finishing the book and settled down for another sleep, filled with dreams of flying away. This time he wasn't alone on his journey, this time he was flying off to Neverland holding a pale, long-fingered, hand.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so so much for all of your lovely comments on this drabble of mine, and of all the kudos! 
> 
> wow just wow!
> 
> idso XX

The next morning he woke to very loud voices, which to him was strange, he thought perhaps Sherlock had left the telly on. Quite loudly; but since Sherlock had not paid any real attention to watching telly before, John wanted to investigate the raucous. He grabbed his dressing gown and went down the stairs as silently as he could. He could hear the voices from inside the living room, there were two. One was Sherlock's but the other, it sounded like a young-ish man’s voice. John tried to listen by the door but the voices suddenly stopped.

"Oh for God's sake John, come on in." This was Sherlock's voice. John gulped and went inside. When he entered the room he saw Sherlock, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, sprawled across the sofa. The armchair was occupied by a man, dressed in a three-piece suit and holding an umbrella. He looked in his mid twenties and had an air of extreme poshness about him.

"Ah, you must be the famous John Watson," the man said. John stumbled for words.

"Y-y-y-yes, and who are you?" John gulped again.

"Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother. He must have mentioned me to you since you too have become such pals." Mycroft sent Sherlock a stern gaze which Sherlock reciprocated with a roll of his eyes.

"He did mention a brother and I think he mentioned your name once or twice," John went over and held out his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Sir."

"Ah, finally someone with decent manners; you could learn something from young Watson here Sherlock." Mycroft rose from his seat and shook John's hand. He sat back down and John followed suit in the other armchair.

"Right, you have now seen John, which I presume was the intention of your visit, now bugger off!" Sherlock said very angrily.

"Sherlock!" John shouted at his dark haired friend.

"That is quite alright John, I am used to my brother's unpleasant manner of speech, and no, brother dear, it was not the intention of my visit. I wanted to send you Mummy's love and give you the presents she has sent over to you; and of course to wish you a Happy Christmas. I'll be leaving for Milan shortly and wanted to drop in on you, brother dear."

Mycroft smiled and John did not like the look of it. It was not a genuine smile but he felt that Mycroft Holmes was not a man you would disagree with—without ending up gagged and bound in some deserted warehouse. John reciprocated with a smile he hoped would come across as genuine.

"Well, I better be off. You two have a lovely Christmas. Try not to destroy the whole house Sherlock." Mycroft rose and held out his hand to Sherlock.

"That was only once, and I cleaned up didn't I?" Sherlock retorted while ignoring his brother's hand.

"John, a pleasure to meet you; I hope you enjoy your stay here. Why you came is of course beyond me, but nevertheless," Mycroft extended his hand to John, and John shook it. "Goodbye brother dear, John." With that Mycroft left. Sherlock rose to look out the window.

"Rolls Royce, well, my brother must do well." Sherlock shook his head.

"Care to tell me what that was all about?" John asked, arms folded across his chest.

"That, was my brother's annual attempt of acting the part of the caring sibling."

"Right, so plans for the day? What are we doing about dinner? Would you like a traditional dinner or some take out?" John asked, trying to change the subject. Sherlock looked over at John and a slight blush started to grow on his fair cheeks.

"I hoped that you perhaps, would cook something? I really liked what you made the other day. Not the grand turkey dinner of course, but just, you know, something?" Sherlock tried to make himself busy with his phone, not meeting John's eyes. John tried to hide his smile—had Sherlock really just complimented his cooking?

"Yeah sure, I'll have a look in the magic fridge and see what might have appeared during the night." John smiled and left the room.

John looked through the kitchen and a whole free-range chicken was there, perhaps the elves (the term John had taken to calling the people who stocked the fridge and clean the house while he and Sherlock slept or were out) knew that John's favourite thing to cook was chicken. John settled for oven cooked chicken with baked parsnips, carrots, potatoes, and a garlic-herb dressing. All the things were there so he didn't have to go to the shops; brilliant, but still a bit creepy.

The day went on as un-Christmassy as it possibly could. Sherlock was cooped up in his room, blowing stuff up by the sound of it; John borrowed Sherlock's laptop to write out some Christmas emails to friends and family. John checked the school's intranet, sometimes the professors had a tendency to assign homework during the holidays and then all the pupils will show up confused as hell on their first day back. Luckily there were no assignments, only Christmas greetings. One particularly nice one from Mr. Roberts, John hadn't thought of him since the day in the office. Weird; perhaps his crush on him wasn't that deep then.

John spent the remainder of the afternoon watching stuff on YouTube; he went down to start dinner at four.

The bangs kept on coming from Sherlock's room. John thought to go up and check on him, but when he heard footsteps he didn't bother. He knew Sherlock too well to get severely injured while experimenting and it would only slow things down. John laughed at the thought. He could see how people would, could, hate him for his eccentric behaviour, but John liked all the eccentricity about Sherlock's behaviour. It made everyday a bit of an adventure.

When he had chucked the chicken and veggies in the oven he went upstairs to check on Sherlock, just in case he had blown off his arm or things alike.

He knocked gently on the door and entered the room. Sherlock was hunched over his little lab—where he had gotten the equipment from, he didn't wish to know.

"Dinner will be ready in about an hour. Have you gotten closer to curing cancer or whatever you're doing?" John sat down on Sherlock's messy bed. Sherlock looked up from his microscope.

"Not quite, no." Sherlock smiled and looked back down into the microscope.

"Thank you for letting me borrow your laptop, I should've brought mine with me. I checked the intranet, no assignments given yet!" John got up and walked around Sherlock's room. He hadn't really looked properly at it. The walls were covered in shelves and bookcases, the shelves were adorned with stuff in glass jars—John didn't wish to investigate them further, but the bookcases were filled with old books of all sorts, as well as magazines. One shelf was filled with notebooks, John turned to Sherlock as asked, "Have you written all of these?"

"Yes, why?" Sherlock didn’t look up from the microscope

"Well, there are a lot them, what are they about?" John asked.

"Deductive reasoning among other things, I wrote them based on experience. You can have a look if you like." Sherlock turned around in his chair to look at John. John picked up one of the notebooks, it was dated 2006.

"Wait, you were ten when you wrote this?" John asked, astonished.

"Yes, problem?" Sherlock answered nonchalantly.

"Well, when I was ten, all I did was muck about and bruise my knees." John laughed.

"My mind did mature quite early in life. I did go through nannies quite often since I deducted that either they were getting on with the chauffer, or they had a drug problem." Sherlock said as he rose and walked over to John.

"No shit!" John answered as Sherlock approached him. Sherlock once again did not grasp the rules of personal space and walked up to John, standing within two feet of him and reaching over and taking one of the books from the shelf. He sent John a smile and walked back to his microscope. John shook himself mentally and glanced at his phone, "Dinner is in forty minutes Sherlock."

"Yes, dear." Sherlock laughed, John joined in. John went downstairs and set the table for the two of them. He made a bit of an effort decorating the table; some Christmassy decorations, which had magically appeared in the kitchen, a Christmas tree and a bunch of presents, had likewise appeared in the living room while John and Sherlock had been in their rooms that afternoon.

John heard Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs and started to plate up the food. Sherlock appeared dressed in his usual slacks but this time he had put on a rather tight burgundy shirt. He looked very smart (and dead sexy, no wait, ah shit)—John discarded that last thought and pretended his bloody brain would shut the fuck up and enjoy the bloody moment.

Sherlock gave the table a strange look. John was once again unable to decipher Sherlock. Was he pleased that he had made an effort? Or displeased by the Christmassy decorations?

"I thought we could have a bit of a Christmassy Christmas despite the lack of turkey dinner and annoying relatives." John said apologetically.

"It looks lovely John, better than a usual Holmes Christmas by far. Everything is always blown out of proportion in this household. This is intimate." Sherlock paused, then added, "and nice."

"I'm glad you think so. Now dig in." John smiled in relief and started to grab some food.

They ate in silence; Sherlock actually eating, and quite a bit—very unusual of him. John was glad though to fill up Sherlock's far too skinny body. When they finished, Sherlock helped John clear away—again, very unusual behaviour.

"Sherlock, you don't have to help just to please me, or whatever you are trying to do. I understand your dislike of the mundane." John said as Sherlock tried to put the leftover food in plastic containers.

"It's no problem John; you don't have to do everything. Thank you for the best Christmas dinner I've had in years." Sherlock said with a tone of complete honesty.

"Thank you Sherlock, but I bet you are used to five star chefs cooking you dinner. I'm just a sixteen year old bloke who had to cook since his mum didn't bother to." John didn't meet Sherlock's gaze, but occupied himself with filling the dishwasher.

"You seem sad every time you speak of home." Sherlock lit a cigarette and smoked in front of the kitchen hood.

"Yeah? No shit." John huffed.

"I'm sorry that you had a shit upbringing John, but for what it's worth, I think your mum and dad do not deserve such an amazing son as you." Sherlock focused entire on his cigarette.

"Err, thank you, I guess. No matter what they are still my family and I have to accept that." John sighed and started the dishwasher.

"I don't. I hated my dad. Glad he died so early and Mummy, well you might have sense my feelings towards her! Not to mention my brother." Sherlock growled.

"To be fair, from what I saw this morning, you are just as bad towards him as you make him out to be against you!" John said defiantly. Sherlock merely grunted and finished his cigarette.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear ones, next instalment is finally here. I must sadly inform you that the next one might take a while for I am currently doing my practical course which is followed by a rather large assignment so that has to be my priority at the moment, sadly!
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy this chapter, remember to review.
> 
> Love from idso

Sherlock was out of cigarettes so he went out to get some. John rolled his eyes at his dark haired friend, John hated the fact that Sherlock smoked. Yet he found it oddly compelling to watch those long, ivory fingers as they caressed the cigarette, and those plump lips, pursed as if softly kissing the small stick. John shook himself—mentally and physically—he shouldn't think those things; especially about his best mate. His best mate who had so kindly taken him to London, at Christmas no less, and given him a place to stay, and food—for free.  
John went into the living room and turned on the telly; Dave was having a marathon of QI Christmas special so he settled for that. During commercials he went to the kitchen to make himself a warm cuppa, grabbed some Christmas candies—that had likewise magically appeared that afternoon—and resettled himself down on the large and comfy sofa.  
After two and a half episodes John started to wonder where the hell Sherlock had gotten to. This was London after all, and it couldn't possibly take more than an hour to go and buy a pack of cigarettes. He sent a text to Sherlock. A phone call would have never been answered, at least he knew that much. There was no answer.  
John began to get worried now, this was a nice part of London he kept telling himself, surely there weren't any muggers or axe murderers running about in this neighbourhood. John stopped paying attention to the television. His mind was racing. Was Sherlock alright? Was he lying all alone in an alley somewhere bleeding to death?  
John felt his eyes start to burn and his heart begin to race. The thought of Sherlock in danger hurt him deeply and the mere thought of Sherlock lying dead somewhere absolutely devastated him.  
Decision made, John set down his mug and went for the door, making sure to grab his jacket from the hall. As he opened the door he gasped, Sherlock was standing slightly hunched in the doorway. He was bleeding from his nose and had a busted lip. There was also a slight hint of blue forming around his swollen right eye.  
"Sherlock, what the hell happened to you?" John cried out, helping Sherlock inside. Sherlock draped his arm around John's back, swinging his head 'round to rest on John's shoulder. John shuffled them into the living room. He removed Sherlock's coat and scarf before manoeuvring him onto the sofa. Sherlock grunted slightly, John would have to check and see if he was perhaps punched in the abdomen.  
"Stay there! I'll just get the first aid kid and some warm water."  
"Like I can go any-fucking-where!"  
John rolled his eyes and left for the kitchen. He looked through every cupboard until he found the kit. He searched out a bowl and put some warm water inside, then found a clean wash cloth and rushed back to the living room. He froze at the sight of a completely sill Sherlock, he was terrified, but then Sherlock let out a loud gasp that made John jump.  
John quickly knelt beside the sofa and started to clean Sherlock's face. There was quite a lot of blood around his mouth—luckily John wasn't squeamish. Sherlock winced slightly at the touch but kept still. He closed his eyes and drew in deep breaths.  
"Are you hurting anywhere else?"  
"Just my nose, lip, eye, and abdomen." Sherlock winced as John brushed his lips with the cloth.  
"What the hell happened Sherlock?" John looked directly into those piercing blue eyes, setting the cloth to the side.  
"Well, the corner shop was closed, just because it is Christmas," Sherlock huffed, "So I had to walk quite a long way to find somewhere that was opened still, and that would sell me cigarettes. I found this dodgy all night kiosk. I got my fags and on the way out I ran into a bunch of people who beat the shit out of me." His tone inflicted nonchalance.  
"What the hell did you do to make them do that?"  
"I simply mentioned to them that they were being very obvious about their drug dealings and they should work a bit harder at concealing it." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John sighed deeply and Sherlock looked momentarily confused. "Not good?" He asked.  
"A bit not good, yeah mate. You can't just go around saying shit like that Sherlock! You'll get beaten up, case in point! Besides, I texted you and you didn't reply, I was worried sick about you!"  
"I didn't see your text before now; I was kind of busy dragging my wounded body half across town!" Sherlock snarled.  
"Sherlock," John sighed, "Please promise me that you'll keep that intelligent mouth of yours shut next time? I can't keep on doing this, fixing you up every time."  
"Then don't! Nobody is forcing you to do it. You're not my babysitter! I managed very well on my own before we met." Sherlock hissed.  
John sighed deeply and cradled his head in his hands. He rose to his feet and turned to look down at Sherlock, "Do you see what I'm saying Sherlock? You don't have to manage it yourself if you would just stay the fuck out of trouble!" He turned around; he felt the anger and helplessness bubble up inside of him.  
"And why do you care? I don't meddle in your business, so why are you meddling in mine?" Sherlock had risen from sofa, standing just behind John.  
John turned around.  
"Because, well because I…I…oh, fuck it!" John grabbed Sherlock by the shirt and crushed their lips together and released him.  
"That's bloody well why." John could feel his eyes swelling up with tears so he ran from the room. He ran upstairs to his room and threw himself on his bed.  
"Well done Watson, you ruined it. You had to go and bloody well ruin it." John said to himself and cried softly into his pillow. "He's going to chuck me out I'm sure, why did I have to go and fall in love with my best fucking friend? How the hell am I supposed to get back to St. Bart's from here? I have no fucking money." John continued his monologue into his pillow, not registering the faint knock on his bedroom door, or said door opening slightly. He did jump at that familiar voice that called out in a near whisper.  
"John?"  
John sat up quickly and dried his eyes. "Please don't chuck me out, I am so sorry! I, I didn't mean to do it! Oh, god, please don't chuck me out." New tears started to form in his eyes.  
"I will not evict you from this house John, if that's what's troubling you," Sherlock walked hesitantly over to the bed and sat down next to John. "I was wondering, if you wouldn't mind, trying that again." John's breath hitched, Sherlock continued, "See, I was not quite sure if I liked or disliked the experience since it was a short duration. I thought I might need more data if I am to decide."  
John looked up and met Sherlock's eyes, "I, I thought you didn't do such things. I had the impression that you weren't interested in boys, or girls for that matter."  
"I wasn't. Not until recently. I have never cared enough about another person before, well, before now." Sherlock gave John a nervous smile.  
"Oh! Err, right, ehm, Sherlock, have, have you ever kissed anyone?" John was tripping over his words.  
"No." Sherlock stated firmly. "As I said, I've never met anyone before who I cared enough about to engage in such activities." Sherlock smiled again.  
John's brain was racing; how the hell was this happening?  
John hesitantly raised his hand to cup Sherlock's face, careful to mind the bruises. He closed his eyes and gently pressed his lips against Sherlock's. It was like a million butterflies erupted in flight inside his stomach. John reached forward with his other hand, grasping at the nape of Sherlock's neck, pressing and pulling them closer together.  
It didn't take long before Sherlock started to kiss John back. John tilted his head, making them have better room. He opened his mouth slightly and Sherlock followed suit. John shifted, straddling Sherlock's thighs as they kissed. Sherlock accepted the move by grabbing firmly onto John's waist.  
John could feel his head beginning to go a bit fuzzy, his lungs burning for air; he pulled away and panted along with Sherlock. It was a while before John dared to speak.  
"So have yo—"  
"Not at all, I need a lot more data." Sherlock hauled John in for another kiss.  
Sherlock led the kiss this time. John enjoyed every moment of this, still not believing it was actually happening, and that Sherlock took to kissing so quickly and so well.  
They broke apart for air once more and John sat back, a question pressing through his fuzzy mind.  
"So where does this leave us?" he asked, chewing his bottom lip. He noticed confusion in Sherlock's eyes, "I mean are we still friends, friends with benefits, or more than that?" John's stomach was turning and his mind was yelling oh please god let it be more than that!  
Sherlock raised his hand to caress John's cheek and smiled deeply, "Oh, John, I think we've been more than just friends for a while now."  
John sighed in relief and smiled. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's. After a moment he felt Sherlock's brow furrow, pulling back, looking into those brilliant eyes, he asks, "What is it Sherlock?"  
"I was just wondering if I could, err, if I might, can I kiss you again?" John watched as Sherlock's cheeks flushed a brilliant scarlet—he laughed.  
"You've my permission to snog me senseless anytime you'd like!" John smiled.  
He was hauled by the neck into a crushing kiss. This kiss was not gentle as the previous ones. It was saying all the things they couldn't find words to say. It was passionate and hungry. John felt Sherlock's tongue caress his lower lip, he gladly opened up to his boyfriend. Oh god, John had a boyfriend! Not just any boyfriend, he was dating Sherlock fucking Holmes—sex on legs and genius divine.  
Sherlock's tongue was exploring John's mouth; the taste of Sherlock filled him like the scent of lavender filled the air of spring. John's fingers were itching to crawl up and tangle themselves in those tempting, dark curls, but he didn't want to rush things, or throw Sherlock off. However, he felt Sherlock's hand climbing upwards from his waist to his back, pausing at John's neck—almost as if waiting for the green light to proceed.  
John moaned into Sherlock's mouth and that made the hands crawl up into his hair, those long, ivory fingers did marvellous things to John's scalp. Things that made John moan even deeper into Sherlock's mouth.  
They broke for air once again, both panting like they had just run a marathon.  
"You are so fucking gorgeous Sherlock, and such a great fucking kisser; are you sure this is your first time snogging someone senseless?" John giggled.  
"Absolutely, and may I just say the pleasure is all mine, oh, and err, yours too apparently." Sherlock sniggered, glancing down at John's trousers.  
"Oh fuck!" John exclaimed, clambering off Sherlock's lap and away from the bed, "God, I am so sorry, it just, god Sherlock, you're just sex on legs!" He blushed scarlet and hid his face in his hands. Sherlock rose to his feet and took John's hands in his own.  
"So are you John, so are you."  
Sherlock kissed the corner of John's mouth and continued along his jaw, down his neck; John tilted his head back to give Sherlock more space and moaned deeply. Sherlock smiled against his skin. John smiled too.  
Sherlock suddenly stopped his ministrations.  
"Err, John?"  
"Yes Sherlock?" John purred.  
"Are you, I mean, do you, do you want me to help you with, err, with that?" John looked at Sherlock as Sherlock pointed to the bulge in John's jeans.  
"Ah, ehm, I, I think we should take things slowly. I, I err, appreciate the offer Sherlock, but I think we need to go to bed. You might change your mind during the night." John looked down, blushing.  
"I will never change my mind about you John." Sherlock sent John one of those smiles that turned his legs into jelly, made his stomach spin, and his cock ache—well ache more than it already did at this point. John tried to reciprocate the smile.  
"Goodnight John."  
"Goodnight Sherlock."  
John started the kiss but Sherlock led it. It was needy and hard. They kissed like they were going to be apart for years.  
Sherlock pulled away with a smile and left for his own room.  
John looked down at his crotch; he decided for a wank in the shower and then bed.  
After his shower, as he snuggled up in the bed, he couldn't quite get over the fact he had been snogged into oblivion by Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock fucking Holmes! He couldn't quite wipe the smile off his face; he fell asleep exhausted by the day's events and blissfully happy.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know, finally a new chapter! I feel like the biggest cunt in the world for letting you guys wait, but my life seemed not to care one jot about giving me time to write.
> 
> This chapter is unbetaed, I am currently looking for a new beta who is much quicker than my previous one, it was a hard decision to make but I don't have time to wait months. if anyone is up for the job please feel free to PM me :)
> 
> enjoy the smuttiness.
> 
> oh yeah and for some reason AO3 seem to fuck it text up a bit when I paste it in from my document.

John woke up the next morning laying on his side as he usually did, feeling warmer than he usually did and slightly more heavy. He opened his eyes and saw long ivory fingers curled around his own stubby tanned ones. He felt a breath on his neck and a warm body against his back; he turned his head around carefully and saw a wild bunch of dark curls.   
John smiled and turned his head back, but Sherlock stirred behind him. John felt Sherlock hug himself closer to John’s back and nuzzled his face in the nape of John’s neck.  
“So do you usually creep inside men’s bedroom at night?” John giggled  
Sherlock just grumbled into John’s neck, though John felt a slight smile against his skin as Sherlock pressed his lips to it. John turned around so he faced Sherlock, but as he stirred Sherlock grabbed John even tighter   
“Don’t go” Sherlock said in almost a whimper.   
“I am not going anywhere Sherlock” John turned around so he faced Sherlock and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.  
“Since when did you become so clingy?” John asked as he caressed those wild curls.  
“I am not clingy, I just had a bad dream and thought I might sleep better with you beside me, that is all” Sherlock mumbled.  
“So much for taking things slowly” John laughed “did you sleep better then?”   
“Very much, you are much better than any hot water bottle” Sherlock caressed John’s hands as he spoke, then he hesitated and looked into John’s eyes “Can I... can I kiss you?”   
“If you don’t mind morning breath then go for it” John laughed  
“I don’t fucking care” Sherlock crushed his lips against John’s; the kiss was hungry and wanting. Sherlock, without breaking the kiss, moved so he saddled John’s legs, John let out an involuntary moan and moved his hands up to caress Sherlock’s back.  
“Well, this is the best thing I’ve ever woken up to Christmas morning” John smiled up at Sherlock.  
“Me too John, now shut up so I can kiss you some more” Sherlock once again crushed his swollen red lips to John’s and John giggled. They snogged for God knows how long, until John pushed Sherlock off of him.  
“Hey I wasn’t done snogging you senseless John” Sherlock huffed in disappointment  
“Yeah well, I have to pee and it is going to take me a little while before I can do so” John gestured towards his semi hard cock “So if you don’t mind I will just pop to the showers and I suggest you do so too” Sherlock rose and John walked out to the bathroom, he was stripping off his clothes when Sherlock was standing next to him, shirtless and utterly gorgeous.  
“Sherlock! What are you doing?” John shrieked   
“Having a shower, like you suggested?” Sherlock said looking like a question mark.  
“I meant in your own bathroom!” John cried out irritated. Sherlock put his shirt back on and left the bathroom. John laughed and got in the shower, had a rather enjoyable wank and didn’t bother getting properly dressed; he put on his pyjamas and shuffled downstairs to get something to eat.  
John looked at the clock; it was a quarter to eleven. He found a can of beans and popped some bread in the toaster, the brunch of champions, well at least the breakfast of a bloke who within the last 24 hours had been; Worried that his best friend had died, had to clean up said best friend after he had been beaten up, been snogged senseless by said best friend now boyfriend and slept in the same bed as boyfriend.  
John smirked, boyfriend, who would have guessed? On the outside very boring, very normal and very straight John Watson had bagged himself the most fantastic and mind-blowingly smart guy in the whole of St. Barts as his boyfriend. John’s inner monologue was interrupted by the patter of feet behind him.  
“Good morning dear, bean and toast?” John was dividing the beans on two plates as two long arms snaked around his waist, and a warm body was pressed up against his back. John felt the wet curls tickle his neck.   
“mmHmmm” Muffled Sherlock in agreement and let go of John. They sat down on the table and started to eat, well at least John ate.  
“Oi, I ain’t snogging you unless you eat something” John pointed his fork at Sherlock; Sherlock mumbled something inaudible and shuffled some beans into his mouth.  
“That’s better darling” John snickered “So what have you got planned for us today?”   
Sherlock momentarily stopped shuffling beans into his mouth   
“Well due to recent events the plan I had in mind is no longer needed, what would you like to do John?” Sherlock shrugged  
“Well, if you don’t mind I’d very much like to spend the rest of the day snogging you senseless, will you be okay with that?” John smiled as he chewed his toast, Sherlock choked a little on his beans and swallowed hard.  
“Not at all my dear Watson, not at all” and with that Sherlock lunged himself over the tabled and hauled John in for a teeth clattering kiss.  
oOo  
Moments later John was cleaning off the table, lips swollen and eyes glazed as Sherlock had rushed up to his bedroom to make sure his experiment didn’t blow up.  
“How is this even real” he kept saying to himself smiling like an idiot. He walked back upstairs and into Sherlock’s room, not really sure how to act, it was strange seeing Sherlock like he had been all morning, sweet, sensitive and a bit clingy – in the good way though!   
Was it because he was on something? Perhaps the fumes of some toxic experiment, or were John an experiment himself?   
“Neither of them” the deep voice called John back to reality  
“How the.. what?” John asked confused.  
“You are entertaining the thought that I might be using you as an experiment, or that I am high on something, the answer is no; I no longer do drugs and you are not an experiment to me, never has been, you were a curiosity to me, yes. Because you did not treat me like dirt, you did not call me a freak or push me around like the others did, you...” Sherlock’s numb facade cracked and he smiled “You treated me like I meant something”   
“Oh Sherlock you daft git, you ARE something, you are the most something I’ve ever seen” John caressed Sherlock’s arm  
“John that did not make any grammatical sense” Sherlock smiled   
“I know, but that is how I feel about you, you are amazing, fantastic and utterly mesmerizing, and I like you for that, Sherlock I even like it when you are annoying, when you run off without saying a word and when you say things that are utterly not good” John’s hands moved over to Sherlock’s face and Sherlock leaned into the touch. “God Sherlock those are the things that made me fall in love with you” Sherlock froze completely  
“You... you are in love with me?” Sherlock said eyes wide?  
“Yes of course! For a genius you can be quite dumb sometimes” John kissed Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock gave John a bone crashing hug.  
“Thank you John” Sherlock said into John’s shoulder.  
“Now if we are done being emotional wrecks shall we commence the promised snogging?” John giggled into Sherlock’s shoulder.  
“I’d like that very much” Sherlock said sending John a mischievous smile and pushed him onto the bed.  
Sherlock crawled over John until they were face to face, he started kissing John’s neck, John made an involuntary moan as those plump lips started to work their way upwards. Sherlock bit lightly onto John’s earlobe and John couldn’t control his hands anymore, they were on Sherlock’s back and caressing his sides and this seemed to egg Sherlock on, because he went straight for John’s mouth.  
Sherlock kissed ferociously, hungry for more, his hands had found their way into John’s hair, and John revelled in every touch and every taste. John’s tongue battled for dominance against the intruder inside its own domain, but failed miserably. Sherlock was the dominant in this kiss, and John let him gladly be so, it was freeing and utterly arousing.  
They parted for air, John couldn’t think straight, since all the blood had gone south for the time being. Sherlock sat up and locked eyes with John, John was struck by the sight in front of him, the genius divine, pupils raven black, shirt rumpled and hair a downright mess; it was the damned sexiest thing he had ever seen.   
Sherlock’s eyes seemed to say what John was thinking, they asked for more. John nodded and Sherlock bent down kissing John gently as he unbuttoned John’s pyjama top and kissed the exposed skin, John was aroused, excited and utterly terrified, he had never gone further than second base with any of his girlfriends, what if he didn’t know what to do, what if Sherlock was disappointed, what if...  
“John stop thinking, it’s bloody annoying” Sherlock mumbled against his skin,  
“Oh God, sorry Sherlock” John said awkwardly, Sherlock stopped kissing John’s chest  
“Look if you don’t want to it’s fine John” Sherlock said softly   
“No, God I want to, it’s just that I’ve never done anything like this before” John muttered, Sherlock smiled and kissed John’s chest.   
“Me” kiss “Neither” kiss “John” kiss “But” kiss “God” kiss ”How” kiss “I” kiss “Want” kiss “To” kiss “Try” Sherlock halted, he had kissed his way down John’s chest and was hovering over John’s achingly hard clothed erection. John thrust his hips upwards as an indicator for Sherlock to move the fuck onwards!  
Sherlock hooked his fingers in the seam of John’s pyjama bottoms and pulled down, exposing John entirely. Sherlock stared at John’s hard and already leaking cock with nothing but utter amazement.  
“God you are gorgeous” Sherlock said softly as he leaned forward and gave the head of John’s cock an experimental lick.   
“Fuck” John hissed and shivered at the touch, it was different, new and fucking fantastic. Sherlock smiled and licked along the entire underside of John’s cock, John continued to moan which seemed only to egg Sherlock on. John’s hands had found themselves in Sherlock’s wild curls, and Sherlock stopped momentarily is ministrations; John looked down and locked eyes with Sherlock, Sherlock sent him an evil grin then gulfed down the entirety of his cock. John's eyes fluttered shut at this sensation, Sherlock was doing unbelievable things with his tongue and John felt the coil of his orgasm starting to form.  
“Sherlock, I... I’m close....” John tried to push Sherlock off of him, but Sherlock seemed to hang on for dear life.  
“OH fuck... Sherlock... fuck fuck fuck..... FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK” John vision became blurry as he came; he had never in his life come this hard. As he came to himself again, he looked down on Sherlock who was licking his lips and gazing mischievously up at John.   
“Oh God S’lock... that was un-fucking-believable” John panted; Sherlock crawled up beside John and smiled.  
“Oh I aim to please” Sherlock said and kissed John’s neck.  
“Come here you” John laughed and drew Sherlock over himself, snogging him into oblivion; he could taste himself in Sherlock's mouth which didn’t bother him one bit. John turned them around so he was saddling Sherlock.  
“My turn” John said cocking an eyebrow  
“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to” Sherlock said  
“Oh stop being so damned chivalrous; I need that cock of yours, in my mouth, pronto!” John commandeered, John secretly found the dominance thing utterly arousing.  
John practically ripped Sherlock's clothes off, leaving him sprawled and gorgeously naked under him, Sherlock's cock was different from John's; it was longer, leaner and paler than his own, not surprising given the body to which it belonged. He started off like Sherlock had, gentle exploratory licks, and as he got more accustomed to the taste and the feel of it he got a bit braver. John kissed the leaking head and kissed down the length, Sherlock thrusted his hips.  
“Impatient are we?” John laughed against the flushed skin  
“Yes and horny as hell, God please John” Sherlock whimpered, John swallowed down the whole of Sherlock's magnificent cock. Sherlock grabbed two fistfuls of sheet as he moaned and exclaimed words in various languages, John didn’t bother to recognize any of it; he was more absorbed in the amazing feeling of Sherlock's pulsing cock against his tongue.  
“John... JAWN... I’m going to... fuck... Joooohn, fuck fuck fuck.. JOOOOOOOHN” Sherlock's lower body almost rose from the bed as he came, John felt the thick hot liquid entering his mouth and he swallowed as much as he could, he kept sucking Sherlock off until the last spasms of his orgasm had left his body, he then kissed his way up Sherlock's torso and nestled himself in the crook of Sherlock's neck.  
“Fuck John, that was....” Sherlock panted  
“It fucking well was” John agreed.  
End of chapter twelve.


End file.
